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ANNA JACKSON

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Saoirse at the fridge

 

Saoirse weeps at the fridge door

removing nothing, the cold air

on her tears, her feet in socks

from Singapore Air. There’s a pink stain

on the shelf where the milk sits seeping

and outside the window someone

is sky-writing something in the sky

she cannot read – there are two planes, one

undoing the writing of the other.

No one knows she is there,

even she herself feels more like a butterfly

dreaming it is Saoirse…surely

when it woke up it would feel

as light as air! And full of fear.

Quickly, lay your load – those eggs

that hatch into hunger machines.

She is hungry, oh she is hungry,

but does not want to think about for whom.

She picks out her coldest onion,

her tears tight on her face.

 

 

 

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