Fathom 2003



Inside Cover




Patrick Pearce (2)
Eva Holland (4)
Julie MacManus (2)
Michelle Damour
Myka Tucker Abramsonmn (2)
Jordan Penney
Brad MacDonald
Kate Buttery (3)
Nikiki Martain
Bethany Jost
Joshua Cotton
Jasmine Somers
Chantelle Rip



Morgan Dambergs
David Bain


Kate Buttery




My shadow will not unhinge
frorn the soles of my feet.
Tree branches soar above my head:
a collage of bones laid out
across the sky.

It is your same sky
while you are in the outback
riding camels or
sleeping beneath stars
pinned tight against blackness.

My last words to you-
One’s future shrinks and expands
in proportion to one’s courage –
echo in my ears with the rough
surf sound of swelling tide.

Our future
will be waiting on a dampened street
beneath the eves of houses fanged
with icicles.

With every breath I haul in my net-
­each gasp a lungful
of silver knotted fish. Our lives lean
against one another, dissembled,

We wake on different days to
the red sun rolling over the rooftops.
In another kitchen, I stand and watch
the water boil. It is the crimson clarity
of morning that reminds me to wonder-
­what was I before
you became.


At Morning Beach

On the sand-bar, past the pier
the long strands of crab-grass
bend to the invisible wind of the waves
like dark hair.
You passed your hand over my face
and blessed my skin with shadow.



We fish for mackerel in a still green cove.
No waves break their white-haired skulls
against silent barnacled rocks, or haul
with gnarled fingers blue-black mussel shells
back to the deep.

Here in the shallows, the sky’s muted
reflection blooms across the water.

I cast and the line flies from my finger-
it spins sunlight as it arcs out over the bay
skyward and then down and down.
From the pier I drag the hook
blindly back towards my hands.

Although the surface of the water returns only
the upturned bowl of the sky I know
below the bottle-green thickets of kelp
that shift and sway in the sea’s ebb and flow
fish swim like a constellation:
pricks of light webbed together by darkness.

The line jerks. Out in the bay, silver
slices the water’s skin.
I turn the reel and the light comes back to me­-
my hands lift the fish streaming from the hook
like the tide that wrests the tattered gleaming
seaweed from the rocks.

At the edge of the pier I watch the fish
twist in my palm. Somewhere
above us a star snaps open.
I haven’t noticed-
the sky has collapsed on the ocean
and dusk has fallen on the pier.


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