Bet You Thought You Saw the Last of Me by Rachel Durs
“Bet You Thought You Saw the Last of Me” by Rachel Durs I used to think that I hated the person I was. I used to think that I left her to die and became someone so much better, But now I know I reached into the past and grabbed her out of there And left all her hang-ups behind. Now I know I didn’t become me by ousting her, but that together we’re the hero of this story – She just happens to...
How Big the Sky by Anna Hundert
“How Big the Sky” by Anna Hundert 1. he steals my darkest lipstick, the one I never wear, and holds me tightly from behind although I do not struggle, I shake as a steady hand writes his name across my back in my darkest lipstick, the one I never wear, which isn’t very dark but dark enough to look like blood. I push him away and then let him draw me close again and then wonder if this has happened to every...
The Distance Between by Maureen McQuerry
“The Distance Between” by Maureen McQuerry You tell me to lean into sorrow as a horse leans against a fence, day after day, believing in time his weight will topple it, like a child leans into her mother, forehead to breastbone, the twin press of despair and hope. Tonight the air is charged with wanting, electric blue. The distance between a question and answer is a skitter of light, the long ache from gravid...
Not Always by Denise Miller
“Not Always” by Denise Miller Remember stones skipped across man-made lake. Remember tall grass browned by sunlight. Remember bouldered footsteps against linoleum. Remember town— city’s antithesis. Remember the bodies of buildings only one story high balanced on basements taller than their skeletons above ground. Remember rock and stone and wood. Remember aluminum and that streetlight bouncing off it like a...
Survivor’s Guide to Sex by Elizabeth Hoover
“Survivor’s Guide to Sex” by Elizabeth Hoover Two days before the declared frost, cold snap. You wake to find the fields a bank, stalks lost to morning light. Walk through wheat, stems snap, brittle with cold. Look into an ear: each kernel is brushed white. You notice details like that more often now—how, when wheat bends under the weight of ice its hair catches in the frozen mud and can’t yank free, even in...
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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