each of us chooses which stars to let shine in the black of our night and we place them, as fragments of glass in a frame, to color the horizon of another soul. that soul does the same, grabbing choice pieces to exchange around solar dust, sparkling, and our own deep light. they burn in […]
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broken thoughts burrow down deep into bed with lies both keep residence in the part of my brain where discernment lived before he went off to war. *** Linda Battson is a writer and artist living in Austin, Texas. She spends her days selling pens and her nights engaged with those she loves. Linda enjoys
you moved that dial from comfort to gone, something compelling you drawing you to firing line and desert sands or some great field with thorns and you wrote a letter to that love you left and she cried on its ink, staining an image of loss, nonetheless, she drew on you. you moved in line
the matchstick girl is of no use in a time like this, when it is such a transient flame she carries in those mitten-wrapped hands, shivering. she shakes upon striking, and it’s not helpful to the cause. no, a fire for this task must cement in her hand, holding more steady than that which will
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since when have we been afraid to swim in the deep, those rock-bottom dark depths that choke and twist? don’t forget that air changes down there or what your body feels like, limping without breath bobbing as boats push water from above. it’s smooth and loose and mellows like love. *** Linda Battson is a
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there’s a late night louisiana caw in the corner a humid grey night gurgle, glogging its treble birdy nightsong between folds of wet air. focus on that, I say. see the way this night does not contrast much with the tree right there, that reaching night tree, ripe in shadow and heavy with day gone