Issue 22




Three Poems


Jacqueline Winter Thomas





Notes on Unfinished Poems



The unearthed fragments of this fragment.


This — a sort of quotation.


You were turned slightly toward the century.


Paul Celan was obsessed with hair.


Memories, dreams, even worlds.  Face a separate sphere.


The space of Time is sound.  You understand: there is no time.  No sound.


Not recollections but hallucinations.


These frozen, silent figures.  Over which I wept.


To end with all the signs.





The Language of Things


After Benjamin’s “Illuminations”



There is a log transformed by meaning into ash

a pre-script and a post-script

pre-fall and post-fall

a parchment and a double writing which it covers


There is a chemist and an alchemist

a name and the thing which precedes it

and, after the sentence’s flawed grammar

comes a silence unrecoverable


The funeral pyre gives way to a flame

and the flame has a life beyond





Lines after Becoming the Moon


(Jessie Benson, Beeswax & oil, 2014)




Everything dissolves—winter birds—the first

flight, fully formed, wings rapidly becoming. I

do not know the early sounds

of shape, nor why the laws of entropy abide—

I only know that everything once black will one day fade




To white,

before they disappear, wings exist

because they are not clouds.

The winter birds ricochet

the weather within them

the sky beneath—their bodies

declaring themselves

only by their context




Learn to track the flock’s

migration, the greater constellatory spheres

like cannulaea composing the smallest shapes:

feather, claw, vertebrae




Moon, and after

same as the last wing bent

against the nameless water




This    winnowed    flight

will end encaustic




No moon. No wing—










Contributing editor Jacqueline Winter Thomas is an M.F.A. candidate in poetry at UNC Wilmington where she teaches courses in creative writing.  She writes at