Sculpture Under A Bridge by Debbie Hall
“Sculpture Under A Bridge” by Debbie Hall Buenos Aires, at a memorial for the “disappeared” during the military dictatorship, 1976-1983 Each figure climbs atop the other up from the dust and dark. They reach through cracks in the road to pull travelers out of...
Mooring the Boat to the Dock by Sarah Black
“Mooring the Boat to the Dock” by Sarah Black Anna Larina was the only audience to the final testament of her husband Nikolai Bukharin. Each morning after his death— Stalin let her live for the national asset of her beauty— she rose to recite her husband’s testimony. Through one decade in the Gulag and one in exile, through the birth of another man’s children, she held Nikolai’s heart in her mouth,...
Where I Am Standing by Marsha Pincus
“Where I Am Standing” by Marsha Pincus I am standing at the gates of Auschwitz peering up at the iron words Arbecht Mach Frei. I take my place among the school children and families of Europe in the ticket line. “Exhibits on your right, showers on your left,” the Polish tour guide says without a trace of irony. On the other side of the gate I am standing on a murderous Main Street in a genocidal Disneyland....
Untitled [When have you ever heard a silent crowd?] by Monika Cooper
“Untitled [When have you ever heard a silent crowd?]” by Monika Cooper When have you ever heard a silent crowd? Without a word, they watched their schoolhouse burn But one man must have turned his wide-brimmed hat Over and over slowly in his hands. They go home silent. I remember when I wanted to be Amish, like in books, Or Mennonite, like one I saw, my age, Pushing a stroller, in a pioneer dress. The future...
Smash Shop by Elizabeth Jacobson
“Smash Shop” by Elizabeth Jacobson From the bench above the pond I watch two ducks make dark channels in the water as they feed, pathways through a mosaic of cracked green ice. Behind me the rocks, strata of red igneous beneath ochre sandstone, are an unconformity— a geologic span— characterized by an immense amount of nothing between two calculable intervals of time. Nothing not meaning that something wasn’t...
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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