Anticipation Swells like a bruised peach-plucked for Malnourished fruit flies. -Amy Struthers Image by Bruno Reyna

Dear Night

Is the robin resting, dear Night? Or is this hole I’ve fashioned into a home the source of a nest upturned? To think the cause of this silence yearned for what my leafless limbs could gather and this hungry beak could break. All for the sake of a white-picket birchbox muted by the steel I…

Riddle 1:

As sharp as it is often dull As weak as it is strong As handy as is harmful While as short as it is long What am I? Answer: Nail – Riddle by Amy Struthers Image by Debora Rousse


From the ground we lap the springs, that feed our vein and fade our wings and drip into a dust we sweep, as held by time in stills we keep. -Amy Struthers Image by Nathaniel Chang

The Pursuit of Air

Breathing is just a dance with air which is why, some of us feel more out of breath than others and why our exertion bears a name as similar: ‘Winded’. It’s why our amazement is ‘breathless’ and why elation lands us on clouds- The sky, and the stars, and the streams and hills filling our…

If Words Were a Waltz

If words were a waltz on a page of this stage, men might linger on language, and languish the age as each tip of the heel, with each click of the tongue, renders syllables spoken or broken, as sung. Where each note is a blot bleeding thoughts into strings, when the spots we call words…

Memento Mori

Tell two artists to create life in words and what you’ll receive in a pulse will be enough. Living begins when we see that every person passing through harbors a story we do not, has a solution to some problem we have yet to realize, is the voice for one lost and the encouragement to…


Based on ‘The Millinery Shop’ by Edgar Degas. Grace in the folds that she fixes- dignified modest… and bold- shifting her shift, in the storeroom, she drifts perfectly poised in the cold- There’s a warmth to the textures she touches- there’s a depth to the dip of her hand when, in humming the beats widows…

Elegy For A Spire

Like petals on the burner, the pyre of Paris ignites, forming in the throes of her death plumes that meld incense to ash. -Amy Struthers