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The Body, Holy Island of Lindesfarne

Annette M. Sisson

This small earth, the tide’s salt-edged tongues, damp licking. Breath eddies, swells the sponge of lungs, lobes suspended amid sky and sea, exhaling, exhaling. Gust gathers, sweeps through the priory ruins, presses sheaves of basalt, wrenches cord grass and bogbean—the chest-hinge opens. Blood thumps. Gale surges, crests, pummels laps of sand. Ancient monks murmur, figments in spray. Slick, mercurial bodies, molded heads—grey seals bob in surf; they lumber to shore, clamber onto rock, keep vigil, quiet as gospel on calfskin.

 

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The Body, Holy Island of Lindesfarne2022-06-26T23:58:57+00:00

Groundwater


Groundwater

Lucy Shapiro

The road is smooth here, like milk poured over the hills, your hand hot on the back of my neck. By tomorrow we’ll be cut loose from these eastern mountain ranges and will have to suffer through the flatlands. Sweat collects where our skin meets and trickles down my spine, leaving a cool memory behind. I told you this morning this trip feels to me like the Jews’ departure from Egypt, and you rolled your eyes and took the duffel from my shoulder, though I was carrying it just […]

Groundwater2020-06-08T06:51:15+00:00
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