11th June 2025

Monthly Newsletter

Hour of the Thorn

By Sá Shellard

Angels are unthinkable

in hot weather

except in some tropical locales, where

from time to time, the women catch one in their nets,

hang it dry, and fashion it into a lantern

that will burn forever on its own inexhaustible oils.

But here—shins smocked with heat rash,

the supersaturated air. We no longer believe

in energies pure enough not to carry heat,

nor in connections—the thought of someone

somewhere warming the air we breathe

that one degree more…

(A Parking Lot in West Houston - Monica Youn)

What to do when love falls off, beyond the reach of ample hands.

You gather thorns to make a collar, hop on a flaming horse and damn the stars for their misalignment. Troubles in Love, troubles with money, that’s how the cards read out to me.
In May, I became another Angel of the tarmac, drank Belgian beer and stared contentiously at the sun. I re-read Cortazár, and watched a crow perch on the 12th rib of the clock.

Friends did what they could to untack me from the doings of my own disquiet. I hid inside the usual stories, hoping for different outcomes.

Naturally, the roses were unmoved, I had a feeling they were mocking me with their big crimson heads… they’ve seen it all before, last summer and the summer before that too.

So what if they did? Parking lots are best for crying anyway, especially at night, you can sit beneath a street lamp for hours and almost learn to disappear.

Today, I hold the signs in both hands, and a little bit of the world too.

Summer’s in the arches, ready to break, I ought to scoop whatever hope remains and feed it to the birds.

With Love

Sá

Landing Practice 05

Landing Practice 04