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Cast in exact duplicate, they edge the beach in terse, diagonal regiment. Tin-nippled, sunk
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Polished stones gleam in the late sun. Gilt lettering, coloured cellophane, roses crisped to a dark mottling.
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Dignified, you weave your decadent shroud, embroidering each stitch with queenly calm.
by EstherG
49 lines, 6 comments,
on Jan 27 4:42 PM
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Gone the grey water
with its yellowish foam: ice
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Pre-dawn I wake, and your breathing finds me,
places me in this bed, this room, this
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The sky must have pricked at the steeple’s needle –
somewhere a witch
by EstherG
18 lines, 18 comments,
on Oct 26 2:28 AM 2007
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There were days and nights and days and nights
in the slopped mulch of the propped trenches. They carved their names in the thick struts,
by EstherG
51 lines, 10 comments,
on Oct 16 6:53 AM 2007
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Lanterns tremble their
yellow doubles in the dark
by EstherG
2 lines, 11 comments,
on Sep 25 5:44 PM 2007
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The audience shade their eyes with stiff hands,
a sea of incidental salutes
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There was sun, and there was rain. Above my head,
a private ceiling strung with stars. Underfoot,
by EstherG
35 lines, 14 comments,
on Sep 5 9:22 AM 2007
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You thwarted my seclusion in a private hell
of full-length glass, and fat, and toilet bowls,
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Bright-beaked in the breeding season, they waddle the crag, / spread feet treading the purple verbena. Coupled like swans / in monastic rob
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The white cradle of the clawfoot tub accepted your body. / In you went like a hand in a glove, / all pale and cold and bluely-naked. Shy of the world and its thin-fingered winds, / shy of the trouble of blood / and w
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Once, from the sill outside his bedroom / she watched as he explored a woman. The diagonal kisses / he mapped on her breast, his forage for treasure. / Their pliant flesh and mouths open. The gleam of teeth. /
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She closed the door behind her, leaving you to explain it all. And after thirty years of thought, you tried. And if your two truths
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She used to be passed between warm-handed women smelling of sun and wheat and want. Cupped to a breast like a suckling child,
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He stole her from the pocket of yellow
field, slipping her in to the living dark
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From lacquered glass to river glass,
her descent to the water is recorded timelessly,
by EstherG
41 lines, 17 comments,
on Oct 30 8:59 AM 2006. In Love
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The glass betrays us, letting through
the sun, that yellow interceptor. I hate the mornings
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The stars are cold, Ruby, and don’t twinkle like they used to
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Eleven pounds.
The scale needle pokes you and you startle, wide-eyed,
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To be insubstantial is not easy.
This is what the girl thought, mooning by the
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Searching the mirror for emerging bones,
handling the sheeted racks of your ribs, your hatchet hips,
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It always seemed like a gentle word, ‘woe’:
soft as the call of an owl, the low wail
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The thin slice of moon shut out with a towel, slopped to squelching weight
in a full sink, mangled half-dry and
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Still you have no commemorative stone. Buried in clay
eighteen months ago, the grass rolled up in sheets
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Fairytales are rife with knife-jawed witches, noses hooked
like unanswerable questions, faces green and dank as millponds.
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Perhaps she shivered in the grey chill, stepping out
of the beery warmth into dull
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Your death would kill music. And all literature.
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There is a painting that hangs in the waiting room,
out of context among the careful neutrals. Each week, my impatient eye is drawn
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Clenched in your hibernaculum
like a green bud holding
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The clinic is a playground with no play,
the whey-faced kids grimly quiet in their lines.
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Much like the artefacts pulled from the rack
and ruin of old Pompeii - the shallow urns, the stiffened clothes, the coiled pets
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Brought to commissioned fidelity from old stone, she lies
in wistful weather-permitting permanence, bunched in the stern folds
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I could have called and called,
but there were rituals.
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