Horses by Patti Smith

Glare at me from your photograph
So I can feel your eyes dark on me
And hear the music flow from your closed lips
Like a slow death, seeping out.

I often wish I was stronger, wish I
Could carry you easily, wish I could walk
Without this hissing awareness of my own body
And all it stands for, all it holds

In its echo chambers of contradiction.
Wish I could feel without planning first,
Without charting a map from myself
To the great happy that hovers

Just past the curve of my earth.
I listen to Patti Smith scream
And gaze into her eyes like a lover,
Like a museum loiterer, examining

A piece of art and extracting meaning
Like tree sap, viscous on all my cortexes,
The record skipping on ‘sins’, ‘sins’, ‘sins’
Over and over like a witch’s curse.

I want to let the threads of my clothes
Hang down, I want unwashed hair.
I want a school of wild horses to carry me
Into the countryside where I can live

In the empty, the nucleus of a large cell.
I want to be so solitary that I have
Nothing to compare my loneliness to,
No great landmark of womanhood

To mark myself with. There
I can scream as she does, about sins,
But all mine will be empty
With nobody near to die for them.

About the author
Maia Armistead is a 17 year old from Hamilton, and was a finalist in the 2019 National Schools Poetry Award.
Trompe-l’œil: An Ekphrasis of Hippolyte Flandrin’s The Young Greek Girl

she’s minding her own business
lost in thought as she heaves a sigh

a sigh that breathes through the paint
and slowly fogs up the glass

i like to think she does it on purpose
that she’s tired of being looked at

she’s being seen and she knows it
with a smart grin behind the canvas

look

looking for an excuse to gaze away
not even above me

like the busts of forgotten emperors
that neatly line vatican shelves

such modesty

she deserves better than them
i like to think she knows it

she reminds me of mrs woolf
not that i knew her of course

i know her just as well

she’s as pensive as mrs woolf
a similar nose even while lost in thought

perusing the values of life and art
believing hers unequal to my own

i like to think that she believes
i’ve nothing to contribute to her meditation

thinking

thinking that there’s no point
in acknowledging my interrupted presence

she’s disinterested in the cassat
and degas, and monet’s little technicolour

haystacks that decorate her living room
i like to think she chose them herself

to impress such guests as myself
who has sought audience with

her confident grace and contemplative
sensibilities i wish i could possess

i wish i had her neck of parian marble
like a petal of a christmas lily

her shoulder draped with chiffon sleeves
like parrhasius’ grand curtain

the small gold earring
like one of zeuxis’ grapes

i like to think

do you mind?

she whispers from the other side
of the glass like an emerald apple

floating between us breathing
ceci n’est pas une femme

this is not a woman

About the author
Charles Broughton is currently a Master's student of English Literature at Victoria University of Wellington. His creative work explores art, myth, and femininity.
The Weight of Divinity

I have grown weary of hearing my vessel be mislabelled as holy
Are only heavenly objects worthy of love?

Nothing about me is godly

This body is but the sum of fleshy sinew and tarnished bone
Divine femininity does not make me more durable or less revolting
I sweat, excrete, purge the same way you do
And I do not appear any more beautiful while doing so

I am no stronger than you because I possess the ability to birth another
I do not wish to create more life
Humanity will suffice without my half-hearted contribution
I wish to only sustain the small space I occupy
Foraging enough food for one

My nurturing womb is neither blossoming nor nurturing
It is dormant
And it will gather dust
And I will not apologise

When I am reduced to androgynous ash
Those who tether themselves to the idea of me will scarper
In search of new hobbies

And I will rest
Filthy, angelic, mundane, alone
Relieved of responsibility

Regretting your womanhood is a tiresome pastime

About the author
Janhavi Gosavi hails from Te Whanganui-a-Tara. She is in her second year of studying a Bachelor of Arts at Victoria University of Wellington, majoring in History, Anthropology and Theatre. Janhavi is the poetry editor and a regular contributor at Salient magazine and enjoys performing spoken word poetry. Janhavi is a proud Hufflepuff, a Netflix addict, and a bubble tea fiend.
The Field: Persephone

              For Eurydice Dixon

I am the girl led out into the field / The woman in the blue
business suit holding a paper coffee cup / waiting

to cross / Hit by a car and thrown in the boot / The woman forced
to dig her own grave / I lose my eyes to acid / I call 111

and say There’s an intruder inside the house / They tell me
Find something heavy… A golf club? Can you go to a neighbour’s

house? / They give out blunt knives / Advise a stab vest
beneath my clothes / I am in the bathroom when he decides /

When he puts on his trainers for extra leverage / In the dark,
I do not see that he has removed the passenger seat / I smell the chloroform

too late / I hear a careful step before I feel the blow /
I marvel at my wet, bloody hand as I move it along

the back of my head and bring it to my face / The moon shines
on his throat / The moon shines on the field /

I am walking with my sisters when the group of men appear /
I am the woman in the stadium / I feel the first stone /

It is the first time I am allowed to walk to the bus stop
alone / He says Women unconsciously long for a man to take

control / My body is found in the river / My body is found in the
alley / They think it is a bundle of rags at first / My face slowly

uncovered / The soil brushed away / My drowned hand
where the skin sloughs off like a glove / My skull waiting for him

to return / I am the girl in the dumping ground / The 1 in 4; 3 in 5;
1 in 10 / I am 18, 22, 46, 78, 14 / A mannequin this night / So still

in the moonlight / So quiet, then realising they are gone
something forces me to run / He puts a mirror underneath so he can watch

himself / He says I know what you are / The moon pools in his throat /
And all the time I am digging I am thinking I’m glad it is me

not her / I am cleaning the window outside the shop / Herding
goats when the men come / Hanging out the washing on the

line / Walking along the river with the dog /
I am the woman silent through it all / The girl

who screams / The woman who fights / I am the girl who travels
somewhere else / The out-of-body girl / The woman who dies

and floats to the branches of a tree / The girl who watches
while the paramedics try to bring her back to this world of mud /

And it is so cold here (in the field) / And it is so cold here
(in the tree) / So pure and cold and brittle with the breath of angels.

 

First published in Abridged

About the author
Wes Lee lives in Paekakariki. Her latest poetry collection, By the Lapels, was launched in Wellington (Steele Roberts Aotearoa, 2019). Her work has appeared in Best New Zealand Poems, Poetry London, Westerly, Landfall, Poetry New Zealand, Turbine, The New Zealand Listener, Australian Poetry Journal, among others. Most recently she was awarded the Poetry New Zealand Prize 2019 by Massey University Press.
Two Pieces

A Tree Falls

I often wonder how Daphne felt
the moment she started changing
into the laurel
like when you were a child
and your body constantly
fought against itself to grow
I can imagine
Daphne’s toes stretching into roots
leaves springing from her ears
skin hardening into
a rough bark
her eyes forming into knots
her twisting torso
as she looked back
for the last time
at the moving world
before being fixed to her spot
unable to move except for the wind through
her limbs
through the canopy of her tree-hair
and only if the Gods willed it
and sometimes the rain falling
staining the dark bark of her skin.

Maybe Eliot had her in mind
when he wrote that line
what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?
But Eliot too left his wife abandoned.

And did he place her on a mountaintop
looking towards home tormented
or deep in a valley next to a singing
river with Peneus scolding her
Apollo staring mouthwatering
for what could have been
and I wonder if she ever had the chance
she’d rather stay like that
than be turned back into flesh
not that she ever had any say
in the matter.

 

 

The Revelation Myth

When I return, after a long, forced exile, entering into the silence just after the storm. When I can splinter with my fingers the woodworm eaten ark laying in pieces in the street, where once as kids we fought together until the cleaved rib gave birth to our division; after all this, I’ll tell them, finally, what I’ve seen.
              I’ll tell them how they set fires to deserts, razed mountains, bore holes through the sun. How boats with hidden eyes crossed horizons and tore through wave-breaks, hulls cringing, heave-ho and how they rounded the earth, tied chains to its circumference, packaged it up, boxed it, sectioned it, suffocated it, diminished it. And where their eyes were once are now gold pieces blinking in the light of dead stars a thousand, two thousand years old.
              An eclipse of seagulls strain their wings against a late-summer sunset. A cascade of palm trees, a drowned oasis, a bent figure that appears, briefly, on the crest of a dune, against the sun outlining a crucifixion in silhouette. A murder of crows; a discarded, blood-smeared dagger partially obscured in the shifting sands like the mute Sphinx, like the pyramids at Giza that keep all the secrets we will never discover.
              And I will tell them of the end first.
              But I know they will not listen, not knowing in which direction to pray like a cracked-faced compass blind to its points. In the aftermath I lay in an empty room somewhere. Deep in the bellows of the house, a clock strikes midnight. A floorboard creaks underfoot. A man clears his throat. I wait for the handle to turn but only the broken spine of silence seeps under the door; for I know this to be impossible, for everyone is now gone. This many-roomed mansion fallen into disrepair, a dilapidated delirium of twisted shape and shadow.
              The jaundiced skin of these walls I could slice with my sins. The moon feeds through its pale light and I write these final words in the blemished blue haze, knowing I shall never return, now that the sun is no longer so recognisable, nor so extraordinary.
              And if I have one last wish, I would ask you to find a breach in the wall and to take me through to where the wind lives. Promise, you will take me to where the wind lives.

About the author
Lincoln Jaques holds a Master of Creative Writing, where his exegesis centred on the noir fiction of Jean Patrick Manchette, Ted Lewis, David Goodis, and James N. Cain. His poetry and fiction has appeared in New Zealand, Australia, Ireland and the US, most recently in Tough Magazine and Noir Nation (forthcoming), Mother Mary Comes to Me: A Pop Culture Poetry Anthology, The Blue Nib, Mayhem, Shot Glass Journal, and Blackmail Press. He lives in Auckland.
An economy based entirely on Stolen Valour

If you summon a demon with brute material objects that are an affront to the Lord—if you are animal blood and grotesque candles in a geometry of horns—what happens to free and unsaleable prayer in the market world—if I am an open-source design and a book in the public domain for an altar—my edition of Shakespeare printed from a PDF at home an affront to commerce—who are the devils opposite the gods of capital to summon?

A moment of suspense in The Merchant of Venice: Bassanio—financed by Antonio’s gamble upon the mercantile ocean—gambles for the life and love of Portia—she would delay and distend his time between now and the bet and wait and draw out and yet forbear until routing around choice altogether—but being kept from a wager is

—in this world—torture…

              Away, then! I am enmeshed in it all:
              If there is hope, it will appear very dark.
              Freedom and the rest, stand all aloof.
              Let rain fall while we make our every choice;
              Then, if we lose, we make a cinematic end,
              Fading drop by drop: that there’s some measure
              Of our sick heavens stirred into the waters
              That rise to meet us. We may win;
              What is rain then? Then rain is
              Even as the overwhelming redistribution
              We must have killed for: such it is
              As the calm you feel wading into long grass
              Knowing there are no snakes. Here we go,
              With no less venom but much more breath
              Than smoke, when the technocrats did command
              Sovereign individuals shield them from
              Their own storms: you stand for sacrifice;
              The rest are the boards of directors,
              With nebulous charts, armed to proclaim
              Your world does not exist. Go, assembly!
              Live that you live: it’s true numbers do not
              Exist in the world beyond our thought.

Oh lines wrested from a text I didn’t pay for—as incomprehensible as any incantation—if you’re without a cost are you anything at all—our lives’ work but a little more entropy caused—priceless our very deepest and most productive contradiction?

A moment of resignation in The Tempest: Prospero reluctantly shelves his powers—in the end chiefly outsourcing and labour exploitation over wizardry—already a world where sufficiently great leaps in efficiency are indistinguishable from magic—a world that isn’t quite

there when we’re not looking…

              You sprites of arcades, life, flash games, and fields;
              And you that on the deepest sands lay down
              Your colossal electricity, and do remove
              The tops from mountains; you free thinkers that
              By night shift fill the rivers with metals,
              Until they turn to gold; and you whose sport
              Is that the world hallucinates, swallowing whole
              Your rules like their own blood; by whose example—
              Though incredulous as kin—I have dimmed
              The lights in my eyes, opened my heart to air,
              And with deep joy in both pixels and ink
              Written careless words: to the church of derivatives
              I have admitted, and rent out my whole self
              From the nib down; the fount and foundation
              Is in crisis, broken by the trees that
              Buckle footpaths: graves of capital
              Have become my breath, clipped, and so forced
              I have fuel for now. But this rough magic
              Is only now forever; and, though I may evaporate
              Without afflictions,—which even now I fear,—
              To turn power into just a dream, that
              Spell we all admit reality, I’ll blind myself,
              Never again take in a majestic panorama,
              And letting go the forces that bind all physics
              I’ll drown my book.

About the author
Chris Holdaway is a poet and bookmaker from Te Tai Tokerau / Northland. He directs the poetry publisher Compound Press, and his book Gorse Poems is published by Atuanui Press in 2021.
a couple was dancing

and I was the room, a cavernous audience. I was depositing things into the room, so many things that I seemed to be the reason they had no space to be able to speak. I can’t tell you what came over me that night but, watching them as I was, and feeling the lilting surge of their phantom conversation moving through me beneath the quiet light, I was moved to protect them. They never noticed me for a moment. I may have been the ghost, I may have been that swollen hum of time. I may have been the daybed in the old conservatory, I may have been his reading glasses on the open book, I may have been the pair of rainboots in the hallway with dried rings of muddied water splayed like earthly constellations on the rubber toe caps. I may have been the hedge of jasmine, or the sprig that she picked on that last morning and pressed inside the cover of his novel, I may have been the pair of crystal glasses with salted rims. I may have been the injured bird that she rescued and later devoured, or the handful of fur wrenched from her neck in an ugly argument. I may have been an old tin of hair lacquer in the bathroom cupboard, I may have been the time that tackied the rim shut. I may have been that single lightbulb dangling, crushed and sparkling, waiting to happen. I might have happened. I may have been their patience and their distance, their stubborn flight or the startled window left to frost over the next winter. I may have been the single dangling lightbulb, having already happened and yet happening still. I wonder if I wasn’t every piece of it. I wonder if I still am every outstanding bet, every orchestral swell, every backlit screen, every sideways haunting.

About the author
Danielle Todd is a poet and short story writer from New Zealand. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in titles such as Ink, Sweat & Tears, Foxtrot Uniform, Runcible Spoon, A Fine Line (NZ Poetry Society), and Little Stone Journal, and was shortlisted for the 2020 Sargeson Prize. She is currently working on her first poetry collection.
Two Poems

Mister Morningstar

mister morningstar
how do you take your coffee
sitting on the back step next to the cat
the lemon tree is overswollen

mister morningstar
how do you tread in the cocytus
and wave away the buzzing droplets
of all the slighted furies

mister morningstar
you got a letter from the company man
saying he’d cut your pay
you took a stand and he beat you up

mister morningstar
you feel like you can’t love
you want to weave light into the world
but it’s all you can do to sit on the back step

 

for now

 

 

The Succour of Seven Friends

For Raphael
For taking me seriously
For dropping gentle words into my well of loneliness
For messaging links to ambient tunes

For Gabriel
For talking about animals when you didn’t know what to say
For wanting to come out to Kawau with me
For being my fellow nonboy-nongirl

For Uriel
For sharing anecdotes about David Byrne and talking meme-shit
For saying Lol good question
When I wrote Like, man, what’s the fucking point of it all

For Chamuel
For letting me know I’m not the only one who worries about the collapsing world
For being so wise
For agreeing that Paddington is the best feel-good movie

For Zadkiel
For saying I had the right to feel—even anger
For encouraging me to take a bath
For leaving candles burning there, next to the water

For Jophiel
For letting me know I’m not the only one who worries about paranoid delusion
Yeah man it’s like—what Tony Soprano said
I’m the reverse Midas—everything I touch turns to shit

And for Michael
For taking the hardest journey with me
For leaving memory on my lips
For needing space
And for playing Brooke Fraser

About the author
Erin Ramsay is a Pākehā nonbinary poet. She is currently working as a high-school librarian (and is extremely grateful for the opportunity to get paid to think and talk about books). Eventually she wants to have an academic career focusing on queer history, language and gender identity, but for the time-being is simply trying to survive the train-wreck of a year that is 2020.
Worrisome

I used to smoke
but now
while my daughter sleeps
I pull on a coat and sit outside: after all

it is nearly the same, to
quiet oneself and
taste the air
crisp and thick with resin.

There are bored ancients in this land,
sunk deep in cold pools and slumbering
under their mantle of fallen pinecones.
I sleep easy with them.
No, it’s other horrors:

the night before
I had dreamt every key
to the world’s doors had been thrown
into a jumbled clutch
and a great fire was burning
unchecked in the tundra. This second
part was true.

I don’t have any talismans left and
my open hands are empty.

About the author
Alexandra Hamilton is raising her daughter in the central North Island of New Zealand. She has been published in a fine line and has used lockdown to organise her bookshelves by colour.
Ephraeth

Once, as male, imperfect
I lay with you under animal skins

Our love was sad and sweet as New Year
sacrifice, rivered with wreathes and stories
pretty as pearls and as worthy

I lay with you under animal skins
and defiled you not, the touch of your
fingers secluded me

I was as brother to you, sister almost
my man-ness untended

Ephraeth was the song I knew from
my mother’s knee, the song I learnt fresh
each day, the song I never could sing from
myself nor she hear of herself, within our
places we smiled the knowledge

Once only we faltered, one Beltaine feast
as the great fires burnt low and men lay
well fed and fast-drunk, the women with
them, save the old and the young and the
crippled, and Ephraeth, who being not yet
wed, crept to where I kept my own counsel
and considered the singing of that night

She came to me and spoke her fear and I,
softened with songs and stars, stroked her
hair and laid my palm on hers and spoke
little, letting the waves and the night deep
ease her and perhaps the truth of friendship

We were not children then, nor have we been
for fourteen summers, Ephraeth mother six times
since and I with one hundred long songs held on my
tongue and more than I care to count in my hand
and always the knowledge a tie between us

 

As she crooned a comfort, she sang to me
When I told of brave hearts, the telling was for her

 

Ephraeth is long gone and I too
but the knowledge smiles on in your
gentle touch, in the ease of exchange
and soothing amity

 

My stories were strength to her
She is still the breath in my harp

About the author
Jenny Dobson lives in Central Hawkes Bay and took part in NZ Poetry Day with a lunchtime performance at the Waipawa Library. She recently had a poem about laundry highly-commended in the NZ Poetry Society's International Poetry Competition.
Two Poems

His Fall Was His Escape

Wax wings unstrapped/floating between the waves for the ocean to melt/Icarus crawls dripping wet/wax stuck in salt soaked hair/mushy hard sand clenched in fists/deep enough under his nails they start bleeding/where is he not bleeding/His chariot disappears onto the horizon/where is He/He has to come/back pressed against rough soft sticky grains/that shit really gets everywhere/chest heaving/lungs might burst into ashes/throat rough from coughing up sea water and consequences

Eyes begin closing/darkness rings the bell for tea/delicious spread laid out/cucumber sandwiches and mini macarons to name a couple/the King’s way of life/Thanatos is laying down white tablecloth/but before the bell can finish/glowing Hands cup mortal flesh/golden Hair tickles against his face/bread and butter is more Icarus’ vibe anyway/tender burning/scorching kisses over closing wounds/probably enough blood to invent with/Icarus can finally taste the sky/even when his feet are buried in mud/laughs larger than the Labyrinth/scares off wildlife by/stomping gallivanting frolicking/flattens fields of wildflowers with his dances/freedom all at once makes you lose your shit/Apollo sighs in adoration

Daedalus is/fake mourning a fake dead boy/so the other Deities can have a good laugh/something to bring up over the next decade at family dinners/curses his son’s cleverness/once held exasperated grins alongside Artemis at/late night meetings/chattering and tiptoeing past loud royal entitlement/mouths leaving hickeys to remember in the morning/Artemis tugs at Him when Her shift is almost over/Him insisting just one more song to serenade with/the Day could wait but His paramour should never/now he smears honey at the tip of the conch shell/Cocalus applauds in reverence/but where is his son/where where where/is he okay/probably keeps the ant as replacement/Moon the only other company/though the dust in sunlight does enjoy winking at him/wonders if Icarus is dead/if he will ever die/Thanatos sets up tea once more/bell finishes ringing for the sleeping inventor/no Icarus found on the list

 

We Were There from the Beginning

We were there when Ganesha’s head was lopped off/Shiva’s swagger for His soldiers to pray to/they’d bow their heads to the ground for Him/not for their wives/we fucking cackled on the sidelines/what a dumbass/Devi Parvati came outside/tension rolling right back onto her skin/identical to the way Her Son’s head rolled off His shoulders/agony on Her face as She wailed at/Her Shiva/only confusion on His face/so typical of a Man/we brought out the popcorn/reclined back on the celestial equivalent of a futon/Shiva scrambles for a solution/Parvati cries/it makes Him uncomfortable in that/I never bothered learning how to take care of others’ emotions and now I wish my snake necklace could just strangle me/type of way

we didn’t even know that Deities could cry/no tears/just weird pained sounds/They must’ve learnt it from the humans/Shiva’s men watch on in shrugging shoulders/obviously/no solutions/bet at least a few of them had found a way to fault Parvati for it/especially when grief turns into anger and Her power makes the men cower on the inside/Shiva at least understands not wanting to cause too much of a scene/enough to order His men to find another head/should have been a divorce somewhere there/killing Your Son kinda feels like a red flag/but we’re not Deities/anger management issues must be more excusable for those types/brings back an elephant’s head/you’d think if you’d already beheaded a Boy/beheading a boy wouldn’t be that hard

anyways/Ganesha came out all the better for it/no trauma to be seen/maybe shoved in another dimension/stashed in His pockets/next to His laddoos/kept a dazzling smile for all/an aching kindness that probably weighed heavy on His bones/tusk in one Hand/ridges inscribed with Parents’ Wrath/who does that to a Kid/never forgets His Beginning/fitting for the Deity of Beginnings/fitting that He watches yours

 

Notes

We Were There from the Beginning was first published in Salient

About the author
Atlas is a high school student who spends their days trying to tell stories, whether it's their own or others'. She hopes to one day have at least one book of her poems out in the world and until then and even after that, he will keep writing as much as he can.
One Would Imagine Sisyphus Is Actually Doing Something Incredibly Important

they  are  rolling        it around the lowest cave system

pushing this one     boulder                   up and up

and up           from below     u can see them       hustling for something

called eternity

 

it rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls

and rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls

and rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls and

rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls and

rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls

 

can see them make a difference            with every single rotation

as the boulder gains             mass     more and more and more

as they roll it          rolls and rolls and rolls

and the story gathers              steam oh

look it’s ole Sisyphus              ole getting-nothing-done

 

rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls and

rolls and rolls and rolls

and rolls and

rolls and

rolls

 

how quick the rest forget            how much  Sisyphus had already

accomplished                           how quick to underestimate

the change that              a big rock dropped from a great height

can facilitate                            once you’ve already stolen immortality

from the gods           then revolution should come easy

About the author
essa may ranapiri (Ngāti Wehi Wehi, Ngāti Raukawa-ki-te-Tonga, Te Arawa, Waikato-Tainui, Ngāti Pukeko, Ngāti Takatāpui, Na Guinnich, Highgate) is a poet from Kirikiriroa. Their first book of poetry ransack (VUP) was longlisted for the Ockham Awards 2020. They are the featured writer in Poetry New Zealand Yearbook 2020 with their work ‘HAUNT|HUNT’. They self-released a chapbook titled POLEMIC in July. Currently they are working on their second book of poems tentatively titled Echidna. They will write until they’re dead.
The Call to Adventure

This issue, MYTHS, came out of a tumultuous year held together by Zoom calls and flight by the seat of our pants. Plans were scrambled, features were paused, and we struggled to rally. And so, perhaps more than any other issue, we are proudest of and most grateful for this one — the stories you’ve sent us, the care of your work, and the ability to touch again once more a community we began to forget existed. 

We decided not to have any compulsory subcategories or stages as we have in the past, just to see how a less conceptual issue might open up imaginations. We received more submissions than we ever have in the past and we’ve loved seeing how our writers and artists engaged with old myths and traditions to tell and create their own stories. Much of that grammar underlies our present ways of thinking, so that engagement and retelling is important. From Ancient Greece and the Bible to modern New Zealand today, it’s been an honour and delight to go through each person’s work and for us to reimagine, through that, our own lives and landscapes. 

In many ways, the future remains uncertain. Myths, in large part, have always been a way to help us navigate that uncertainty. It seems fitting that these beautiful pieces of work wrestle with the darkest parts of our psyche and yet so many are filled with wonder, humour, and beauty. Each of these pieces give us the greatest gift that anyone can receive: a new way to move through the world. 

Warmest,
Janna and Anuja on behalf of the Oscen team: Nadya, Sherry, Kriti, Bianca, and Radi