"....Bone sliver, his half-/dying."


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Issue 15: To the New

Issue 14: The Double Issue

Issue 13: Free Form

Issue 12: The Necessary Ear

Issue 11: The Necessary Eye

Issue 10: Out on a Limb

Issue 9: The Missing Body

Issue 8: The Lily

Issue 7: Passages

Issue 6: No More Tears


Amanda Auchter

Fall of the Medici

              for Ron Mohring


As the Wedgwood would split its blue floral spout,

then so would the man, so would his fragile shape,

but not his ash. As the teapot rocked and fell

you caught its hairline crack.

As quick as the box you emptied of him into

the bayou, as quick as that.

As winter was just frost on your floor that night and no night

went without shiver, when he held the cup and the pekoe

his tooth chipped the shell rim.

You buried it

in the yard below the bulbs and bay bramble. Dug it up

after the internment. Bone sliver, his half-

dying. The teapotís fracture, your fissure unfilling.

Once its delicate leak was enough

to consider discarding. Water boils threat, breaks the china

cup. Your palm-scald fear, your floating suspended, or only him

blowing the steam from his mouth, warming the air,

the air full of air. You watched them float together, then away.



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