Back to Issue Twelve.




The mind is buoyant and just like it,
I lift my skirt above the water-mark,
for anyone. Bothered eyes
take my legs
for a guess, though
it doesn’t have to work that way—
a scar’s all glitz, really,
for predictions.
I cheapen those who look at me, and skin
begins misunderstandings
like a lake
will dream the trees surrounding it to kelp.
Despite the solemn looks that tag us
as adults,
it’s possible to drag the water
and whistle a fizzy song. Regardless
how sharp the razors are, the wishes work
both with and without reason:
a boy, once a man,
once stumbled back from me, oak among oaks,
into low sunlight which made him golden
and impossible. To remember
isn’t going backwards;
it only seems that way—the wish, like minutes
from a long infatuation taken down
in mere initials which
you carved into his trunk.

Alec Hershman lives in Bangkok, Thailand. He has received awards from the Kimmel-Harding-Nelson Center for the Arts, The Jentel Foundation, and The Institute for Sustainable Living, Art, and Natural Design. More of his work appears in recent issues of Puerto del Sol, Mantis, Waccamaw, Western Humanities Review, and Cimarron Review. You can find out more at

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