Image by Chris Gander

Even our shoes muffled, we drift
in herds down their streets,
bodies flapping cloths
of liquid blues and greens.

We sink to feeding. Our voices
slice the air above slabbed
bread or meat,
accustomed sights.

We rejoice like gardeners
in pride of pruning,
in snips and rearranging,
success and failure fenced
by useless bones and blood.

At hour’s end, shuffling,
we disappear, like
their foreshadowed ghosts.


From the visions of cats, vampires, insane trees, and family antics jumbled in her head, Lida Broadhurst shapes her prose and poetry. When it is too hot, too cold, or too rainy in Oakland , CA , the visions are weirder than usual. She has studied writing with Dr. Lawrence Perrine and Bevery Lauderdale. Her work has appeared in Mythic Delirium, Nemonymous #1, GUD, and many other publications. One of her poems was nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Rhysling Award.

Back To Issue #18

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