By Shannon Cuthbert

Shadows swim blue on the statues,
Dart and flick like fork-tongued koi.
October is like this, knee-deep in hidden,
In fungal realities, in worlds burst wide
At their silvery roots, the mirror made milk
By its own ancient longings.
Tonight we blend, hum our skins as one
In the park, the wood, these liminal spaces,
Brush a border between our worlds.
Slip through a seam sewn into my back,
In a sill, a door, the half-pried hole
Of a farm where birdsong powders floors,
Shedding all that is soft, and speaks decay.

Shannon Cuthbert is a writer and artist living in Brooklyn. Her poems have appeared in Amethyst Review, Bangor Literary Review, and First Literary Review-East, among others. Her work is forthcoming in Dodging the Rain, Hamilton Stone Review, Déraciné Magazine, and Ink Sweat and Tears, among others.

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