Submitted poem by Sofia Marlin.

She was a dancer. Transfixed by the light that played against the mossy stones that squished and purred beneath her curling toes. A daughter of Earth, and prodigy of fire. Red mane flashing like flames as she twirled beneath the naked moon. Slender framed and slender formed, she was an entity all her own. Goddess? Spirit? I know naught. But giggles burst from her like bubbles when her eyes see. Invisible wings must perch on her back. For when she moves, her feet glide on air. Beware, this intoxicating temptress. Wild girls know nothing of tame love. They feast on secrets, fresh and stale. And when they move, continents shift to create perfect balance for their art. No hearts. Just moonlit souls that fall down when the sun comes up, then spring up again when he slumbers. The gypsy dances within it all. Air, water earth, fire. Peace and war. Her yellow eyes tell tales that only the oldest oaks can know. If you see her, ask her nothing. For she speaks in shadows. Just watch. As skin intertwines with leaf and air and dirt and fire and moon and you: witness, audience. Let your thoughts drift into sleepy wisps of breeze that tickle her skin and give her movements purpose. Let your fears become sparks of flame that warm her flesh and flush her cheeks. Let her passion grab you and take you and enthrall you in its cloak. Because when she stops moving, she will spit you out. Leaving you in the cold. No fires or love or light. Silence. And your self-reflection inked into the coals. Haunting you with your incomplete life and misery. Until the moon is full. Then she will twirl again, and suck your sorrows out. She is a dancer. Giggles bursting like bubbles. Air-gliding. Nothing tame. Hunting secrets. Yellow eyes. Shadow speaking. And then gone.


Sofia Marlin is a first year in Emerson’s MFA in Creative Writing program. When she isn’t writing for class or pleasure, she can be found in her bedroom amidst a plethora of pillows and stuffed creatures, trying to stay warm while sipping tea and nibbling at pretzels. She often writes about relationships, the pastoral realm, LGBTQ tropes, and the hardships of daily life.