Sublime

Keiko Yamasuki woke up in the middle of the night to find herself alone, the sheets beside her cool. She got up, dressed, and went out the door. At first glance she saw her husband’s shadow in the bamboo grove in the yard, as usual. They had homes in England and in Japan, but Hines preferred his Japanese home. He said that the moonlight of the East

Easily, he slept; and as he slept, the woman in the photograph took her arm from the pastor’s waist, and crossed the parched lawn towards the camera. Her black skirts, thickly beaded at the hem, obscured the view of Bethesda; then her fine and muddied boots came over the frame, and were first set squarely on the table, then one by one on the floor:

On the eve of her twenty-third birthday, Luca Lee-McNabb felt utterly disconnected. In truth, she had felt this way for most of her life—this sense of dislocation, of not quite belonging, of being an odd-shaped peg trying to fit into an even odder-shaped world.

Sapphists