Michaela A. Gabriel



your hair :
split your face into
halves : let the dim one answer to
my call : godlike : turning salt to sweat to sugar rush : like
            a blue moon flexing in the sky as thunder darkens
the heights of summer : sing : shatter china : your voice is

heavens brighter than birdsong : punish the sun : slip your
            shadow across its yellow blade : eve eve : outshine
the jealousy-riddled stars : a garter snake uncoils : the tree
trembles & shames its soil : stuns
fruit into perplexity :
into sweet



You've never caught me flirting with fire,
with spoonfuls of salt too near my lips.

You haven't seen me leaning toward water,
caressing a blade with tender eyes.

And yet you stare at the blue rivers
passing the bridges of my wrists,

place a hand over my heart each night,
your ear against my mouth.

You do not rest before your fingers
have curled around mine,

as if I might decide, in dreams,
to slip away.

As if you, in sleep, could
hold me back.


Michaela A. Gabriel lives in Vienna, Austria, where she works as an English teacher for adults and occasional translator. She has been widely published both online and in print: recently or forthcoming in Escape into Life, Paris Lit Up, Envoi, and Used Furniture Review. She is the author of two and a half chapbooks: apples for adam, the secret meanings of greek letters, small confessions and pebbles of regrets (with Alex Stolis). She is working on her first full-length collection, elemental.


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MadHat, Issue 15, Winter 2013-2014