Issue #8


Surfing is not the word, is not the act,
time leaks out from the corner of my screen,
miasmic flow of fog and cataract,
I can’t remember anywhere I’ve been.

But then emergent, swimming through debris;
a clearer pool, a digital archive,
a transcribed clip from nineteen-seventy,
and, for two seconds in the frame, alive,

my father, dead for over twenty years !
He walks and smiles, my mother holds his arm,
she’s shy; he turns and looks, then disappears.
He met my gaze, his eyes were brown and warm.

Encoded wraiths, pale signs from cyberspace,
through a glass darkly; but then face to face.

Andrew Myers