.
Picture this frail slender woman,
pale and forty-five,
in fog of which she might be
made, approaching
a familiar well in southern England, leaning bony
elbows on the rim and peering in. She's come to seek
.
two prophesies: the first, a metaphor – imploring,
hoping for – some new dark fish to surface, another
a familiar well in southern England, leaning bony
elbows on the rim and peering in. She's come to seek
.
two prophesies: the first, a metaphor – imploring,
hoping for – some new dark fish to surface, another
looming scaly face, to catch the sight
of, coming up.
She’ll dare to look down there again:
to mine it for
.
the alien eyes of what you’re not
supposed to find
in wells – a divination that will
offer her its spells,
hoping she will see whatever her arcane
desires require,
according to the exigencies, needs and cries of her
according to the exigencies, needs and cries of her
.
beseeching unpredictabilities,
her fleet and fickle mind.
This is how her other children have come up: she's
learned to wait, alone, in privacy, alert and quiet
This is how her other children have come up: she's
learned to wait, alone, in privacy, alert and quiet
as a mouse, for any sign of life
to stir. (Her latest
.
evanescent infant she called "To the Lighthouse.")
She'll wait until the next one comes and if it doesn't,
she'll review the prospects of a second destiny:
not waiting for a fish but possibly becoming one.
.
Among the many things that you can do with water
is approach it as if you were its abandoned daughter –
choose the option of effecting through its frigid depths
.
evanescent infant she called "To the Lighthouse.")
She'll wait until the next one comes and if it doesn't,
she'll review the prospects of a second destiny:
not waiting for a fish but possibly becoming one.
.
Among the many things that you can do with water
is approach it as if you were its abandoned daughter –
choose the option of effecting through its frigid depths
the next expected sacrifice, and
necessary slaughter.
.
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