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CAROLYN FISHER
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two
poems
Distance Redefined
- From dawn one day to the next
- late afternoon you lay crossways
- as I hung on: my deckchair womb.
- Driving alone a week later
- - you're with your father -
- I stop to phone home four times
- in half an hour, missing
- the belly-flop of your surprise
- each time the car door slams.
- At the beach I lick sand
- from your eyes, lids pressed
- like pages of a book around a flower.
- And when strawberry welts raise
- concern I hold your warm hand,
- all night, precious as the earth
- that folds between us
- so hemispheres softly touch
- and distance must be redefined.
- Before school I tease out knots,
- divide your hair evenly
- into three, plait, then loosen
- the strands you say pull too tight:
- our lessons of separation.
- So let me take this chance to say
- when our earthly apron strings
- are severed, I'll be bound to your side:
- less flawed, less fettered.
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Cavalier
- The old horse lifts his knees
- to pick his way
- through a patch of thistle
- like a well-heeled woman
- gathering her skirts to tiptoe
- through a puddle.
- He pauses in the middle,
- neck outstretched, lips
- drawn back, and clips
- the last purple head
- between convex yellow teeth
- with the delicacy of drinking
- tea from a cup held
- between thumb and forefinger.
- Then backs out awkwardly
- and ambles over.
- Coming close enough
- for you to kiss the soft
- bat's wing of his muzzle,
- he blows beery
- grass-fermented breath
- in your face, then suddenly
- looks away, ears pricked,
- fascinated by nothing obvious.
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