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first published in South, 2005
and gliding
into where silence flares, flowers,
and twists, as barley sugar she once tasted
at a fair, riding a carousel horse, laughing at her father’s
round glasses, precariously perched, over his black beard;
he’s watching her, sipping his mocha, a rose in the glass
and she spins:
on her left arm, in blue black a number:
that of a hut, a shelf, no mattress, a cover where lice ride bare-back,
and she earnt water with bread, cabbage water, sometimes water with no additives
and now she’s gliding like barley sugar twists, breaking as a glass just
thrown at the fire
Valerie Bridge
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