by Olivia Tuck
The lifeline dissects my palm. Two white seeds sit across it. Swallow: swallow, with day-old water. I'll wait until my vertebrae stop holding my head.
It's the longest day. I should be running barefoot through the witching hour beneath the strawberry moon. Boys and girls lie on hillsides, in fields, in glades, waiting for the sun to come back. The smoke they breathe lets them touch storybook dustcovers. Faery people fly past in their hosts, astride moths and b