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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, 17 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, 8 comments,
on Oct 16 6:53 AM 2007
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Lanterns tremble their
yellow doubles in the dark
by EstherG
2 lines, 10 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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He has filled the space in you.
Are you buying blue, or pink?
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Guilt is a bone-dweller. A thin princess
with stone in her face, and voluminous skirts
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It was clear that your cleverness
couldn’t save you, though you tried regardless;
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