Written by Allison Riechman-Bennett
Art by Allison Riechman-Bennett

Instrumental, we seem, to our own surmise.
And yet it is a blessing, a substantive reminder that we are also of our own falsities, when another adds a note to our chorus.
Here lies a place unseamed.
Untitled to rain, to crystalline flakes swept into known unknowns.
It is where Penelope lets loose her threads, and where Hestia pulls them into her hearth.
And where the Mother’s skin grows a porcellian familiar with the sun.