Singing at the End by Molly Scott
“Singing at the End” by Molly Scott How do we know when that is – the end? so we can put our boots on, so we can be sure our doors are open and all the chores are done, so we can feel the breath, the precious breath move through the bone house one more time ribboned with song. When the sound is right, the singer knows. It’s muscles, really, and intent, an exercise of tensing this, releasing that, a gesture –...
Cycle for Nembetsu Udori, Festival to Summon Ancestral Spirits by Judy Schavrien
“Cycle for Nembetsu Udori, Festival to Summon Ancestral Spirits” by Judy Schavrien Summer in Kyoto, Remembering Van Gogh Cicada(1) at Dawn From the full-throated throb you alight – sawing your single note. Noon: Remembering Van Gogh on Mt. Heiei Noon swelled to bursting. In the pine’s blue flame – one sudden cicada! Sunset Cicada, silent in a ray of sunset you weld to the branch. Night Cicada, with all your...
Lady Lazarus by Jacqueline Doyle
“Lady Lazarus” by Jacqueline Doyle For Sylvia Plath That was one pissed-off chick, you know what I’m saying? Sure you do. We’ve all been there, ready to eat men like air. Whirling in circles, spitting menace, lightning bolts shooting from extended fingertips as we point, “You! Yeah, you!” He’s not going to fuck with you no more, they’re not going to fuck with you no more....
In Memory Of by Peg Duthie
“In Memory Of” by Peg Duthie My aunt hanged herself, but her children told the press she’d overdosed on pills. It was in fact pills for the boyfriend of my then best friend. She had her own pills, and I never found out if they helped or healed her: I moved away. She stopped writing back. I pictured my letters chewed into spitwads. There were pills, too, for Mr. Popularity— a prince of my high school...
Untitled jisei series by Shirley Plummer
“Untitled jisei series” by Shirley Plummer Based on Lewis Turco’s Paradigm have morning birds flown? still earth under empty sky do you fear the dark birds of prey swooping ’round me circling the death that is near sweet song of blackbird plucks at the strings of a harp my heart cries out at fledgeling’s wistful entreaty owl eyes terrorize alarmed child...
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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