Death's Godson, By Megan Hippler

The neighbors called him “Thirteen,”
as though his birth order should trump
the name his mother whispered 
as she kissed his scraped knees.

The schoolchildren called him “Ghost Boy”
when they heard he wore a hand-me-down white gown
and squirmed in Death’s arms
on the morning of his Christening.

Death called him “my godson, the doctor” 
to watch his face heat like flames
and crumple at the reminder 
that he saved no one
but those Death already knew would live.

Death assumed he wanted more gold
than his father’s fingers had ever known,
but Death never asked 
if it was worth never-ending saddle sores
to reach people withered and still 
or hunched and screaming
against goose-feather pillows.

Death never asked 
if their pleas echoed in his horse’s canter
or the hiss of a candle burning too low. 
Never asked
if he woke to regiments of the dead 
at his bed’s end,
all of them remembering 
how that slip of black fabric 
waited at their feet for their last breath.

The world called the most accurate oracle
they wished they could know,
a miracle born with healer’s hands, 

but when he searched his herb-stained hands,
he only ever saw Death.


Megan Hippler is a writer and poet from West Virginia who currently lives in Australia. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Seamwork magazine, The Poetry of Yoga, Vol. 2, Re/Coded, and Modern Loss.

Illustration by Heinrich Lefler.

Waking Up Snow White, By Kim Malinowski

I smooth the wet fabric around her collar,

trace and tuck her gown.

We are both wet from rain, and I can see that she has awoken,

tears trickling down.

I taste the brine as our lips

bump.

Nothing happens, she doesn’t pretend to wake up.

I know what dead lips look like—shriveled and pale—like so many lovers.

Too many apples to count. I’ve waited and practiced

and now her lips are soft and full.

I hold her hand, trace a line and whisper—“I know you are awake.”

She takes her hand back.

“I was never asleep, just waiting.”

“Well, I’m the Prince.  I’m supposed to rescue you.”

Rain trickles down my back.  There should be fireworks or something.

Not wet.

“Maybe I’ll love you,” she smiles.

“Maybe I’d like to be dry.”

I brush her cheek with my hand, savoring the softness.

I pick her up, and we go inside.

Kim Malinowski earned her BA at West Virginia University and her M.F.A. at American University.  She currently a student of The Writers Studio.   Her chapbook is forthcoming from Kind of a Hurricane Press.  Her work has appeared in War, Literature, and the Arts, Mythic Delirium, as well as others.

Altered image by Heinrich Lefler