the seventh



Silver down on shoulder-blades, silver 

giving breath through all expansion of space.  


The night shines.


Moonlight: how it tumbles through the window as

the bedroom breathes, the bedroom sighs,

night air hums in the sensation of wind chimes,

of silver bells. And watch

how the space grows 

to push against your fingertips.


It is a strange thing. The kiss on the neck melts into a drop of wine.

You wake up to think: I must have been bleeding.

And so it is the oldest story. The moon veils your eyes 

until space shivers higher, higher.

Julia Retkova is a King’s College London graduate student with two degrees in Literature and Digital Studies: she’s currently working on her dissertation while running a small literary journal. She was born in Ukraine, but grew up in the south of Spain. She loves reading books in the sun and writing when everyone’s asleep. Her writing has been previously published in Storgy, Literally Stories, Masque & Spectacle, Sublunary Review, the tide rises, the tide falls, and is forthcoming in a few others. 

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