by Michelle Hulan

photo by Tala Dursun Marko on Unsplash

When I was young, my future
was as sure as static on the screen.

There were backs arching. A woman’s hand
reaching past shadows. Torsos

tethered to no discernable plot. I felt my way
toward desire blindfolded in a hum

of bees. Sometimes I bang my fists against sheet metal
just to hear its sound hit walls and return as echo—

My past always has the last word,
but I never met a future I didn’t like.

By LP Patterson

photo by Alev Takil on Pexels

The world has moved on from its earring,  

from its bells, far away silver and gold   

that impose, intractably, this burn  

in sunlight, the hissing sound and mettle.

The world has moved on as a traveler   

that reaches the deepest recesses of its mark.  

Disinherit the world, disinherit the mark

of your crystal knife fashioned in an earring.

Let the waters swarm, She said. And She set the birds to flight and the sea monsters She

delivered to the deep. Both waters swarmed and She saw that it was good. Let the earth creep,

She said. Cattle and all crawling things took to the land and the wild animals and the trees and

the fruits of the trees and the seeds of the fruits of the trees filled the earth, and She saw that it

was good. Let something very different happen,

First there was the void—

known elsewhere as Chaos,

which Ovid called a shapeless heap,

which others know as darkness,

which still lurks in the creases of things.

This was the first of all is.

This shapeless abysm of is

has at certain times in history

found people to bother—

one was Botticelli.

One day the void stared at Botticelli

such that Botticelli felt the bluntness

of its stare like an invisible finger

pressed against his forehead.

The ocean opens

its red eye & blinks:

another witness

in the age

of witness, another

natural thing made

man. Which is to say: silent

& intent

on watching itself

die. Some things

can be helped. Some

can’t. For example:

when sand

scratches your cornea,