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always her

she leaves her hair on the pillow

like tangles of sunset cobwebs


to snare my thoughts

throughout the day


in them, I will be wrapped

and helpless

like a near-dead fly


in a prison of the softest thread

... (Full version available in Voice of Eve, issue 6)

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passive relations

he was like a giant slab that a god had once thrown from the mountaintop,

sunk into the earth under his own weight

 aligned with gravity.

and there he laid, cheek pressed into the dirt, waiting for feet to stand in front of his weather-pounded face

and pass a few words

or strew some crumbs

that his big, long tongue might loll on to

and manage to get stuck on its furred surface…

drag them back in.

the tree that clung to the crags above him,

all thick, wiry root

and hard sinews,

was his ever-constant sentinel,

either dropping idle tears

or watching with impassive indifference

as the sun baked his face to cracks.

occasionally, and with sun-blessed consent,

she’d shelter his face with the long fans of her fingers,

his cheek swollen with silent thanks around her shade.


she’d send part of herself fluttering down to rest in his cheek,

a discarded comfort

he was never sure

was meant for him.


they stroked me with feathers for an age

until the too-tender tickling became an agony

and I begged them

to shred the down from the shafts and

scratch me with the broken remains

they were sad

I had rejected their softness

the not-quite realness of themselves.

I tried to explain that I did not see my reflection in theirs

... (Full version available in Voice of Eve, issue 6)

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