she/he/it fondles me graciously: “remember me?
I was your shadow, defecated, invisible
in endless pitch – a threnody.
note me in your handheld comfort object
before it dies.”
and somewhere, a corseted wraith is braying and praying
to an entity it has seen somewhere in a painting.
“why is everyone afraid of him?”, they ask,
his tentacles weak from holding a Eucharist too close to artificial light.
he guessed the sun wasn’t close enough to God.
but to him, God is the shadow who fondles him in the dark.
Arielle Tipa is a writer and editor who lives near a haunted lake in New York, and whose work ranges from fabulist to feminist, macabre to bizarre. She has been published in Mirror Dance, Alien Mouth, fluland, and FIVE:2:ONE Magazine, among others. Currently, she runs OCCULUM, a journal of speculative fiction.