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The shyness of hands not quite held


all that hiding 

in front of the neighbours –

you might think the stars 

would just disappear  


instead they burn

on and on


inside a granite hearth

grey, tall as a man

iron hook, flaming logs

cauldron of Cerridwen, 

old woman, hag shadow bent 

over broth, stirs steam into 

story, we are

hare, salmon, hawk

sow, fire



snap of wet wood, scatter

of sparks


in the morning, awakened by

ash in our hands, on our thumbs

small tendernesses, burns.



Gyroscope Review,  Fall 2020,  20:4  p.64

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