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'Mostly water', a new poem by Bonny Cassidy

March 2014, no. 359

'Mostly water', a new poem by Bonny Cassidy

March 2014, no. 359

In winter the garden
like the back of our mind

a faint young sun.

By dawn the house
has forgotten much of it.


Last night I caught you
reading strands from the plughole

pointing to the shrunken stranger
crackling in the tumble-dry.

I thought of my grandmother pointing
proudly over her daughter’s shoulder
to the photograph of her daughter.


The rain rises fast.

I’m wondering what my young girl’s doing
now, and what if
she were faintly real.

I’ve made you aware
you’ll never know.


When you quiz the electronic mind
she doesn’t listen –
and as you sleep
I break her up
into neat little sticks.

Let them lie.


You wake

our hydrogen bonds.

I’m mostly water
as you know.

You’re saying how warm you feel
trying to scrape off my sweater
like an energetic young son.


The rain hovers

removes its feet.

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