harmonia, reimagined

She passed the locket down to me, wildflowers blooming from her decolletage. One day she told me it was my turn. So she draped the trauma gently around my neck while I held up my hair.

 Sit up straight or your back will stay that way, she'd say
as I twirled the silver heart between my fingers
a pendulum swinging from one calamity to the next.

I remember wondering how she got our faces to be
so small
partial fingerprints
inside the Haephestian chambers
cold and doomed

I see your smile
warped by gentle flames
of birthday candles
 and remember
 how first-class flight risks
are all a little Icarian

You snuff out the candles
 with the pads of your fingers

I've always been afraid of fire.

You scratched out Elysium
from all the maps
 in your glove compartment.
You were never one to ask for directions.

   But secretly
you just hoped
             I'd never find it.

I am Atlas
the burdens of women before me
yoked around my throat until
the shears of Atropos
cut me loose

I just think it's interesting
 how atrophy
 and your name
linger caustic in my tired
mouth.


About The Author

Amanda Williams is a neurodivergent American writer and poet. Her words appear in Hecate Magazine, Poor Yorick Journal, the Levatio, Voidspace Zine, and elsewhere. She edits poetry & prose for the Levatio. She lives in the UK with her husband and puppy.