Beach glass
		
	The woman walks along the sand,
	her deep grey eyes, black hair deflect light,
	creating a fracture in the early morning —
	a fragment of deep night. 
	Horseshoe crabs scuttle away. 

	A spyglass follows her,
	from a not-so-distant beachhouse.
	Shallow water swirls 
	around her ankles, catching her hem.
	Coolly, she lifts her dress to her knees —
	he, desperate, sighs.

	Every day the walk, the sigh.
	Until he trails behind her, 
	stumbling in his fascination, 
	spyglass hanging from his belt. 

	When she turns, 
	his life stands on a knife blade,
	and his balance is not good.

	Next morning, the woman walks, 
	smiling distantly, to
	the solitary sound 
	of shattered glass grating against sand
	under her bare feet. 
 

 

 

	Backyard Brews
		
	At first glance it might have been a veritable witches’ sabbat. A hissing cauldron hung from 
	a three-legged stand over the fire, lighting the faces of the laughing circle in the deep dark. 
	There were no sounds outside of the laughter and the fire. Yet a closer inspection revealed the 
	commonplace. Instead of women in flowing robes or gowns, there were early middle-aged men and 
	women wearing windbreakers and fleece sweatshirts. Instead of chanting to the devil or any 
	assortment of gods, they were discussing plans for remodeling their split-level ranch homes. 
	The laughter wasn’t the cackling sort, but merely loud under the influence of Nathan Hale ale 
	– a local brew, magical in its own right. And the cast-iron pot smoking over the fire held 
	baked beans, not an evil-smelling potion. Still, everyone quieted as sparks from the fire 
	shot up into the sky and turned into stars.  

 

 

Anna Bristow recently finished her MA in English, with a concentration in poetry. She works as a freelance editor, and lives in Brooklyn with her boyfriend and his cat.