Prints In Amber
“If you didn’t know beeswax, you’d take it for amber,”
Said my mother’s aunt, Babs. Her voice broke the slumber
Of wax, cracked tapes, yellowed lace, bent pins without number -
Her aunt’s good sewing box, heading off yonder.
Now all that’s preserved is that one tiny ember,
Its twelve deep black grooves worn by threads for her “Singer”.
It holds bits of yarns that have held us together
And something less solid: blurred prints of her fingers.
Page(s) 15
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- Lamport Court
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- Pen Pusher Magazine
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- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
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- Staple
- Strange Faeces
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- Thumbscrew
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- Weyfarers
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- Yellow Crane, The