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'Mostly water', a new poem by Bonny Cassidy

by
March 2014, no. 359

'Mostly water', a new poem by Bonny Cassidy

by
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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