FathomOnline

 

 Fathom 1999

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

jessica moore (2)
A. Zachary Wells (2)
E.M. Caine
Jessie Chalmers (2)
Jantine Saul
Maud Alexandra Arthur (2)
Erin Whitmore
Christine Squire (2)
Gina M. Granter (2)
Paul McPherson
c.a. ackland
Natalie Doiron
Jessica Henderson
Luke Dobek
Melanie Muise
paRvEDa
V. Combden
Catherine Roberts
Jenny A. Johnson
Steven Wendland

Prose

Steve Schimp

[PDF]

Gina M. Granter

 

 

feet

you tell me my
feet are not
soft
and I’m telling you
they were not
meant to be so
we were not meant to live
with complex systems
for excessive maintenance the people
who have travel-sized bottles of
moisturizer in their purses
have got it all
wrong I did not
come here to condition
myself against the
harshness of living
in my young life I have spent
as much time as possible without
shoes letting my feet explore the leaves,
the mud, the sand, rocks, and water
someday they will no longer feel any
pain from the Earth this is
what was meant to happen.

my feet were not created to be leather-clad
and steel-toed they were made
to help me move over this
ground in the time that I have I am not
a conqueror I do not conquer instead
I nurture and I borrow from this
Earth which birthed me I did not
create this Earth it created me and is
not for me to wear down but rather
it wears me down my
feet are not
soft.

 

sleepwalker

sleepwalker
searching for slumber
she’s sure she could sustain solitude
if only she could lull herself to sleep
to the lonely whistling of wind
it’s hard honey to do without that blanket
when it’s cold
it’s hard to warm the bed alone
and she drifts aimlessly down the halls
zombie-eyed
he’d told her they were beautiful
brown like his own, he said
brown like the warm soft skin that covered all that was him
and it’s hard now to find shades of brown
those comforting colours
like autumn leaves
she told him she was leaf-delicate like her season
a mourning season
melancholy
he promised her a summer rich with possibility
she wished to sail on ocean waves
she’d so often tasted the salt on his body
immersed herself in the fluidity of his skin
attached herself to the love of his seasons
but they were just that--his seasons
it was he who held the red seed
folded his fingers over it and
fled

 

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul