Steven Mayoff had a great poem, "It All Becomes Fiction", in last fall's issue, and he gets in on the bird act with this haunting piece. In other news, contributor copies have, in most cases, been finally sent on their merry way (we apologize profusely for the delay), and your favorite Editrices (yes, both of them, what did you think only one girl runs this show?) will be at Chicago Zine Fest with a profusion of Toucans tomorrow. That is, if the crows don't get us first.
Crow Ghazal
by Steven Mayoff
Lightning crows severed red earth
from raw sky, ripping a gash where the snow
fell through and salted our destinies
in a season when pine trees bared white
nipples to a smoldering sun.
Teardrop crows flooded that subversive
age of blood trails, mapped out in a thrum
of branches, tapering into tendrils and veins
hungry for the gathering judgment.
Cut-out crows beat paper wings,
humming above the world before their Icarian
plummet smashed against a frozen
sea. Under the birthing moon (or a sun lost
inside the crowning fracture of a skull) a calibration
of crows perched, patient as knitting bones.
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