one side of the victor’s shoulder

This story is paired with Chapter 7 of Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. For best experience, download the LithoReader for your iPhone or iPad and get NonBinary Review for free. 

He was awake under a forensic glare earlier—
each spark left a crack along the surface, riddled,
and I like to imagine the current hard branding him
like later we might chase along the lines, back to its root.

Now one big mass, it’s hard to believe, big ballsy project
complete with square eyes and a tentacle, can breath
this very same air we live in. And humanity will scream for it.
Frank, you’ll be a rock star. I wish I’d never said it; fat words

which must have sounded like slaps of lightning, or bright
shows of thunder when my lips move over them like stones.
The monster has a belly full of pebbles, sure enough, but
no heart to heave them up and out and around the room

Because life born from still life has nothing to wonder at.
There will be no prayers, no ballads, no grand affair—
the monster will run dry and cotton will fall from its mouth.
rocks stay still in the stomach, make it heavy, bitter somehow.

I look at the good doctor and speak a kind of echo—
it won’t have a language, just ire in his water; a short shelf-life.
Long will live the electric noise it makes—so, I wonder,
shall we do the right thing? –whisper—just cut it off?


NBR3-06ClarephotooriginalSarah Clare is the supporting Editor to Cæsura magazine—poetry, prose, the written word makes her tick. She firmly believes that life is a test of language.