Please see our important Publisher’s Note following this month’s Editorial that has important information about a new threat to the survival of all SF/F/H magazines.
Your grandmother was made of paper.
Millimeter-thin, she could slip in
and out of closed doors, unnoticed.
She could be written on with ink
then crumpled up and tossed
inside a bin. Sometimes, when lucky,
she would be cut in pieces. Or left to yellow
beside a Virgin’s icon and a cross.
Your mother noticed, early on, how she could
fold in, fold on, fold into
how she could fold thick
become a tiny paper brick, despite her wishes. She fought.
Now she’s grown old. She’s still well-known
for nasty paper cuts, for crusty blood
lining her edges like a veteran. Now she’s
all crumpled too. Now she, too,
Mutters to herself, coughs up confetti.
When will you outgrow she asks
that sickly paper-skin?
She has forgotten what it’s like
to be of wood pulp, to fold in. Look at your legs,
manila-buff and two-dimensioned.
Tissue as thin as angel’s hair.
You breathe in air.
Lungs swell, heart beats; a tiny
paper drum. Listen to its hum:
one-two, one-two, this paper skin
is hardly any good
but takes ink
well. Pray; tell. Your heartbeat whispers:
Write on yourself the poems
that take you out of Hell.