Current Issue               Submissions               Round Table






I stroked her burnt mosaic,
the rusted shadow of iron crossed brows,
raised terra cotta eyes, scribbled
edge of patchwork cheek.

The sun was hooded in prayer,
feathery pumice, flaming tephrite,
and pyroclastic surge.

I lingered by the architectural vines,
a pillar in the sunken courtyard,
a sleeping tortoise and a fig tree —

taken by the smell of fish sauce,
petaled halo and finely etched wings —

captured by hope of outstretched arms,
by hollows in the mud.

      — James Flick