Half a heartbeat, stuttered ink: tethered ghosts, papercuts, a misplaced scream. Everything grows up
to be grief. The story begins on this mangled shore:
my blundered leap, his tangled roar dangling from the bridge, a blur. This salted feast before me.
The Old Gods & the New Trees
A girl whose god is starlight worships death. My dress hides the universe – the fuse, some fuel, and fumes. From stones: birth.
My lips two lathes, my tongue a coal. Betrayed, the winged birds fled. Flood: if I leave the camera’s aperture open, the whole field
saturates, snow on blood on snow. Sudden; swept. And what is left but girl grounded at an altar, curled around a ram’s head,
pierced by prayer.
There, I am planted & I wake with a skirt of earth, a stutter, bones browned and wet. The stars were stepping stones but now
I am a grave, mouthful of eggs, weighted down by sun. I only watch: skies devoured by skies and skies never sated. Black
with salt and meat, the sea mourns the once upon a time she was a womb.
-- Kimberly Glanzman holds an MFA from the University of Kentucky. She was a finalist for the 2019 Stella Kupferberg Memorial Short Story Prize and a 2020 Pushcart Nominee. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Electric Lit, South Dakota Review, Stonecoast Review, Sky Island Journal, and Porter House Review, among others.