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The Fiddlehead
Atlantic Canada's International Literary Journal
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poetry
Scrumble
What if I were turned on by seemingly innocent words
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Women in a room near mine moans, "I'm Dying. I Want
Unbidden
The ghosts swarn
Duration
Those flurries
Scripture
Your violins pursue
Meant
When the rat rests
Men in Fog
The labels descend into blackness
The Charioteer
His stony stare is made of opal and onys.
Antlers
The quickest bones that can bloom from an animal
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Current Issue:
No. 298