Saint Flower by Ann L. Carter
“Saint Flower” by Ann L. Carter Zinnias are like some special kind of saint smiling in the face of my transgressions. They forgive me when I don’t water them though the Kansas sun beats down like hell. They accept it when I uproot them to some godforsaken spot I need to brighten. They keep face when I cut them down in full bloom and let them slowly wilt on my sunroom table while the cat nibbles at them and the vase...
Familiar by Sue Churchill
“Familiar” by Sue Churchill The stray cat in the loft owns the barn. Though the farmers shoo her, she returns, claiming her place through her own knowing. She knows its long blanks of silence. she knows the fullness of its motion from swallow to owl to snake to mouse to spider to fly. She has caught what moves in the soil under the manger. She knows how to slip behind the barn door in a pinch. She knows the...
Snake Molting by Lora Keller
“Snake Molting” by Lora Keller The itch starts at her eyes and sweeps down the pulsing muscle of her body. She swells and shimmies around fossil-pocked boulders, silvered driftwood. When she can’t find a bristled surface, she loops into her own strained and crusty flesh and peels herself from herself. She’s a single-limbed ballerina tugging off her tights, a wrinkled pool of inside-out skin coiled beside her, traces...
Look for Raven Pairs Flying in a Pre-Mating Ritual by Karen Skolfield
“Look for Raven Pairs Flying in a Pre-Mating Ritual” by Karen Skolfield How they would nest in our bones if they could. Inhabit a skull, wind-scrubbed, sterile, line it with the high desert plants, that extra hour of sunlight, the elevation. Bones bleach because there’s nothing better to do, no books waiting to be read. Ravens love every little dead thing, a fur-sack smashed against the road, a body curled...
The Cows by Elizabeth Jacobson
“The Cows” by Elizabeth Jacobson Now that I have read this story about the cows I think of them at night when I cannot sleep, how they are so still in their grassy field, seemingly suspended like animations of themselves. Even though there are only 3, I count them over and over, envision them as if I were floating above their pasture, observe the different stances they choose: the 3 of them standing bottom to...
Does the sea remember everything? I wonder.
Does she absorb everything? Does she keep it safe?
Virginia Woolf
. . .
The Q: Can you fathom the spectacle that would be created if we moved together, arms outstretched, close enough to touch?
The Q: What echoes through you that longs to take form—a poem, an image, a mark, a whisper of becoming?
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fathoms Feb 28, 2026 -
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