Narrative

Herself a carnival, a masquerade, her performance ripped
her off. Doubling, weaving, unravelling a marvellous Ariadne spool, dreading
Jason and grieving the Minotaur, the magic realism did not take off. Like the
plastic-fed albatross, her wings were crow, splendour doused to black branches,
and she was a tree.

 

She remembered:
“She was a tree of the earth
Unable, unether, heavy as sand
She could not fly, effortlessly transsubstantiate
As sparkling energetic sunshine.

Man cannot live without a root to grasp.”

This disturbing sense of return…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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