• By Nicole Kennedy (she/her)
  • Art “Dark Horse” by Sophia Kaplan (she/her)

Shoes without socks
Shoes nailed into bone,
I walk past the butchery with a hopeful empty cup.
My footprints like ectoplasm
I watch you feather
invisible steps atop the treads.
Follow me in between planes of glass on my way to the oxygen store.
My shadow as

full as a suitcase, we wheel between
leather markets, eyes glazed over, and four-legged—
like a pull-apart spider sealed in a child’s mason jar.


The carriages around the city don’t have whips,
and that makes it sadder for the horses to me.


I miss bumping into you on accident and apologizing.


When did I become the beast heaving a cart without seats? I can’t see you in my sleep so I run my fingers through bowls of milk

                                                so 
                                         you’ll
                             feel me
               making the bed. The
        horses whisper through my
window in the dark,
praying for sharper teeth,
and thinner necks.