Larissa Shmailo, “Jamas Volveré”


Jamas Volveré

        To touch the sidereal limits with the hands—Otero

Gone are the stars that are not the sun
that punctuate heights no longer heights,
heights become space. Things I will never know
with my proximity senses are gone, all gone:
I will never hear a star upon this Earth,
but I feel the warm gusts your wings stir up.
If, in the daytime, I were to leave bread and fruit for you,
you might come again. I am not so different from
the mangrove swamp where you play.


—Larissa Shmailo
from Fieralingue’s Four Seasons, Spring issue




Camille Martin

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