14:1: “Twinned at Pasture”, by Alicia Cole...

“The Reverend John Michell calculated in 1767 that the probability of a chance alignment of so many bright stars was only 1 in 500,000, and so correctly surmised that the Pleiades and many other clusters of stars must be physically related.”

As near as the tufts on a dandelion blown
in the haze of spring, heading separate
directions; as far as the edges of Cades Cove.
My sister, there are fences

that separate us. You stand, a bull tawny
amid the purple clover, while I run the field.
I would gauge our shared constellation
for a sign, but all it tells me

is related. Our hair matches to the very root.
Our hearts reach further than the Taurean arc:
I am nestled among the Pleiades, you range
the rim of the Hyades,

neither of us touching Aldebaran.


Alicia Cole, a writer and educator, lives in Lawrenceville, GA, with a photographer and a menagerie of familiars. Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in Asimov’s, Strange Horizons, Liminality, Dark Mountain, and Lakeside Circus. Her musings on writing and life can be found at facebook.com/AliciaColewriter. She says:

My twin and I are very different human beings: she extroverted yet ranging close to home; I introverted yet adventurous.  Both born in the sign of Taurus, we have gravitated our entire lives to our mother star.  As a NASA engineer, a true rocket woman, she shines brightly.  I am warm on making my own light, peeking out bit by bit from Mother’s corona; my twin stands calmly, in a place I do not yet understand.

12:2: “Artemis Speaks to Aphrodite”, by Alicia Cole...

for Sonya Taaffe

Leaf-light on the walls: here we wait, sister.
The aspen casts her shade like curling ochre,
your mouth a tender pearl.  You say,

I waited at the sea, unceasingly earnest;
the rocks piled up at my feet lashed with
sea nettle, weeds.  The tea I brewed was bitter.

I stretch bark and leaf-bright, shake the
blight, still sleepy, to the packed earth.  Say,
Here is your bower if you’ll have it: tented

with morning green, lush and verdant.
Forgive the yellow that creeps in with
fall’s hedging.  My gift: an acorn soaked

past poison.  Through the winter, hold the
seed on your tongue; the sea, a roaring charger
bridled and set to ride, waits for a planting

when the ice first breaks
open
in place of light.


Alicia Cole, a writer and educator, lives in Lawrenceville, GA, with a photographer, their cat, and two schools of fish. Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in Asimov’s, Strange Horizons, Goblin Fruit, Dark Mountain, and Futurdaze: An Anthology of YA Science Fiction. Her musings on writing and life can be found at three-magpies.livejournal.com. She says:

Sonya posted something about the sea on her journal.  I was inspired and started to wonder about Goddesses speaking to each other at the shores of the sea.  Not any particular sea, more of an archetypal sea – the place where frozen faith breaks open, becoming belief.  This poem is the result.  


Illustration by MiguelHermoso (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons