Issue 34 · November 2021

Art & Lit



I have a sea-sick sort of triumph -

himalayan mountains lost to the smoke of human destiny

with a light in his eye, he will follow -

bright sky - leading him to sacrifice;

old hands at a tavern, smoke,

coming down from the mountains - fills her lungs

and water collects because she knows he isn’t worth -

dying, crystals and the table and

bones in their hair - no one said this was reality.

Words - nonsense words - flying from their mouth,

foaming, tabid in the streets, infecting cobblestone

to lose its silence. Oh how quiet

someone’s in the kitchen doing my thing -


Ripley Bright