The Starving Saints

by Caitlin Starling

Death does not come all at once; it leaves many of us in the sunlight behind, to grapple with a loss that comes seemingly out of order. Our own rhythms distract us from the procession.”

Wow. This is a line that shows the caliber of the author.

But her words sound hollow, even to her ear. In her chest, something blooms. Something tremulous and terrifying. Hope, out of season. Impossible hope. Another miracle for the pile.

So many passages could read as standalone poems but it doesn't feel forced.

Maybe faith, when brought to life, is too much when you are drowned in it your whole life. The sustaining liquor of it suddenly made solid.

And yet all of her reason feels as distant as her rage.

She found her spite, at last, and rode it out of the forest.

This is how the learning works: side-glimpsed realizations, nothing direct, but always leaning toward greater understanding.

“You taught me how to fight,” she tells Voyne. “It’s not fair that this one time, I wasn’t supposed to.”

They sip at the nectar of the living blooms that wreathe Her.

With a howl of rage, Phosyne grasps whatever she can reach. The gnarled, dried husk of the corkindrill, hanging from the ceiling; its teeth are blunt but there is something unseen tangled in them. A star, burning in a vast emptiness. A glittering fragment of mica embedded in enamel. In life, it must have tried to bite the heavens. That tooth sings against her palm. She lunges.

Magic in these lines. Not in a colloquial or literal sense....but some power there.