— TR Brady
When I sleep I always manage to have a dream
where I touch the hands of the dead and also die,
so I’m growing a new me in the crawlspace
under my house. First I grow the hands.
Then I grow my new feet and my new eyes.
In the dark I stitch myself together and bury
my old parts. Pray over them so they may
learn how to die better than I did.
I become an animal I don’t know. It’s just learning
to live. Its skin pink and soft to bruise. Its movements
green and new. I wonder if it’s too much to ask,
to want to touch the end and come back from it.
Read more from Issue No. 15 or share on Facebook and Twitter.