Luna Luna Magazine is a digital diary of literature, idea, and magical living. We are a space for witches, dreamers and creators. Our goal is to explore the space between darkness and light (not to be confused with 'good' or 'bad'), and between dream and reality. The shadow is our home. We encourage women, poc, queer people and nonbinary people to contribute. We also host an online community, The Luminous, on Facebook. 

Lisa Marie Basile is founding creative director of Luna Luna Magazine. She is also the author of Light Magic for Dark Times, a modern grimoire of inspired rituals and daily practices, along with a few poetry collections, including the forthcoming Nympholepsy. She has written for The New York Times, Narratively, Grimoire Magazine, Entropy, Spork, The Atlas Review, PANK, and more. Lisa Marie earned a Masters degree in Writing from The New School. 



I am always on the summer side of the balcony. It isn’t raining yet. It is so bright I cannot tell the color of the sky. And then you are there, there, and here, and always standing.

There are plants, and the plants know your name. What is it? What are you?

I am not going to water them, I won’t do it, be a good girl, make body of your vines, make the vines hate me.

Orange, the sky. Together we watch bodies all below. Pulsing through doorways, little white doorways, little doorways to more doorways, and those labyrinthine spaces where apples roll. We sweat to chase them.

I can see the stucco exhale
                                         breath with me, deadling.

What are you?

Our bodies become instruments for the rain. Little blood in the bricks, little ancient bricks. Our bodies an ancient blood. Won’t you come close?

I will stand in white and make a fool of this suffering. There is an emptiness in these narrow streets

            and it fiends us; the only anathema is want. 


Listen at the womb of day. There is my love in white. I come for him in silent chapels; the birds led me here. Listen at the flutter of their wings. There he is in black, grinding. I grope at god for the way, but shadows take with fullness, full of me, and a dripping mouth.

I am shaped of small songs at night, I am shaped of oak groves.

              When you died, a dog watched me cry in the alley all alone.

I wanted the pew, I wanted to be open for light. The alter waits for me, but it’s not that easy anymore. I am not a child with a wound. I am now the wound.

You took me in, wrapped me in linen       

                                             and showed me out to sea.

This cannot be prayed for; our words are petty and vulgar. I am bigger than words, and you deserve more than that. I am emptier than black or white now. I am a blossom in the shape of the end. I am seasonal.

You should know how lasting I am, how vacant I have become, how when I curl inward I resurrect.

So I place myself in a room with all the angels.

          I am relic, I am relic to myself.


Death, I un-name you;

              you cannot fragment me. I would curse you, but you do not exist.

You have loved me into the sea, you have bled the black pig and we have feasted,

and our mouth is so wide. I had such could.

I died for such want.