by Alexandra Seidel
I Will you plant water and carry the moon to harvest? Wasted time is always shorter in our memory, and memory is a Hanged Man's raven too hungry for scraps, a beak to cup the moon II Should I trap stormclouds in a net and whisper thunder from my fingertips? Ophelia knew that girls were made for drowning We breathe our souls into the water saturated soil of our screaming At night the river holds us like a raven holds the moon III When you tend a crop that never blooms what shall be your bread, and what your wine? The horizon is a rope that has bound many A sleep-brought dusting of dark feathers, and you can smell the rain in the air, smell it from the deepness of the soil; she was pale as night's sun goes the story; a liar, our raven sings
Alexandra Seidel writes poems and stories of things born from imagination and dreams. Some of her work can be found in Ideomancer, Mythic Delirium, Strange Horizons, and elsewhere. If you are so inclined you can follow Alexa on Twitter (@Alexa_Seidel) or read her blog.
When asked what kind of mask would choose her, Alexa replied as follows: "it would have to be a trickster thing, a mercurial thing, something with bells and a hidden smile."
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