Layers of Zoe (Page 4)

More issues

Elastic Distance

Departure begins with luggage limits. A scale claims to decide how much of one life may pass into another. The house has taken on your absence – like damp. The dogs make rounds as if another door might open onto you. I’m in twin minds. Your mess is gone. The

#24. Outsourced Thought.

The world had misplaced its reading glasses. A notice went up in the square. It read: Taxes, Regulations, Procedures. A man in a hurry insisted it said: Urgent, Medical, Forbidden. By evening, the chaos had spread. They brought receipts as scripture, parking tickets as pardons, timetables, bound and footnoted. The

A Case.

Exhibit A / Exhibit B I set the lines in order, one by one, And let the metre march its steady beat. The rhymes fall in, a drill that must be done, Like schoolboys shuffling in with dusty feet. I gave your rhymes their fifteen lines of fame. They marched in

Certain pieces are in circulation elsewhere. Tracking information is incomplete.

Drunk Pelicans and Iberian Oddities

Dispatches from Kallaikoi land – where even the sea is conscripted, and history clings to the asphalt. I went sailing off the north coast, where the Kallaikoi still speak. But the water had been conscripted – yellow Canadairs: low-flying, with the grace of drunk pelicans and the moral authority of hazard

You Are Not the Room

You are not the room. Not the thick air, the chipped mug, the mould on the bathtub. Not the silence that clings to the ceiling, or the rot of hours with no answers. You are not broken, doomed, undeserving, a fraud. Nothing wasted, nothing lost. You’re just stuck – like

Fugue for an Old Hunter in Scent Major

– Bach, for two noses, one constant presence. I. Doof: Opening Nose low. Step silent. The scent begins shallow – he slows. Left paw tests a patch of dry. There was a bird, not long. He turns before the wind does. Ribs tighten around the breath that hasn’t changed. Something worth

Men Explain the Wind

They say it’s from the northwest, force 4, rising. They say you’ll want to reef the main, watch for veer after dusk. They say many things. They gesture at isobars, tap their phones like altars. They pronounce cyclogenesis with the softness of prayer. They lean over charts as

Calibrating/Leaping

We were both born into wallpaper that refused to repeat. He: briefly the brightest thing in the room, not meant to last the evening. She: kept an alembic for grief, distilled the air into bitterness, bottled the residue. At night, I followed the maps drawn in moth dust. You charted

Mozambique

Caravel, Catechism, Kalashnikov, Couture

No gods, no newsletters.
We do not interrupt by email.

All content on this site is © 2024–2026 Eva Dias Costa and licensed under Creative Commons Attribution–NonCommercial–NoDerivatives 4.0 International .