Weekly Feature





The song of the wind that turns a black, helpless sea

To the waves that heave and roll

And break

And She,

Twice her size in shadow

Under a moonless night, with hair of ink that spills

into a night sky

Her song  (strung up between the stars),

Catches the wind

and whispers

Over, over, over

Into a sailor’s dream

Wakes him, teases him,

Leads him by the reins of his genetic stupidity

To take the wheel, in his hands

And she watches the bow heave and turn

Roll with the wind

a great roaring ache of wood that rears on the crest of a wave

Holds still,

a moment

Hull against the sky


The smack of the water

the rocks that surround her spear and plunge deep

Shatter bones and wood


Takes the boat

And it’s crew

To die


She is settled. She is done.

More will come.

But for now, her storm begins to calm

And She, whilst the sky turns from black to grey

Surveys her wreckage


An arm, a leg, but best, the bobbing shrivelling heads

Of men who wanted.

But now, looking down

There is the translucent milk-white of skin,

Between the pale morning green of moss and algae

And she slips, like a shadow, from rock

To rock

Each, now glittering, sparkling, blinding

Touches the sunshine gold of a woman’s hair

Her body, naked, soft

A sailors knot around her wrists

That she unties

Touches her lips to hers,

Sand, and salt, but her mouth warms


And her breath comes again

And her heart beats again.

Natascha Graham is a lesbian writer, poet and artist from Suffolk, England, with work previously published in Acumen, Litro and Flash Fiction Magazine.