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Editors' Pick

touching story

not the turn to gold but touch he

wanted most, no object that

flesh of his

supper gelled to shining

ore lumps when he bit, that sepals

stiffened on the rose

like nipples bared to frost. not

the lark that lasted but the scar

its moneyed weight peeled

down the tree. not the trophy

hound, that sudden andiron

dropped from his lap,

but the fox, stinking, invisible,


myth to asses’ ears,

no nodding velveted clefts

named his errata, not a page

or armed barber kissed the riverbed

to scandalize the reeds

into singing true. and when his daughter,

as he’d tell it, sprang

into his transmuting arms, and after,

there was no god to take the hardening gift away.

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