by Ada Hoffmann

So many times I sketched an outstretched hand
like glass, twisting the light
of street-lamps through its palm,

then shook my head
and buried the page with old magazines.

Later, unknowing,
you crept in anyway. You said,
"I dreamed of a woman made of glass, like this,"
laid out a page in your own hand,
and met my eyes.


Ada Hoffmann commutes to southern Ontario from an obscure globular cluster populated mostly by elves. Her poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons and Goblin Fruit. She blogs a lot about autism in SF. You can find her online at or on Twitter at @xasymptote.

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