she occupies 
the cusp 
where shoppers exit
bringing out
privilege’s bright shadows
filmed in plastic

the weather pretends nothing here
no friends
no green lace
no cushioning from glare

see fingers bared 
to frost-wounds
like bloodied stars

and skin broken open
in climate’s heave & yaw
amongst this dirt, this raw rasp
of pavement life

she knows no poultice 
from the sun
no pencil stand 
to keep her dry
between thunder’s darts

only this truth

what are we 
without our sleeping bags?
perhaps just skinless larvae
waiting for the slash of beaks

Written for Twiglet #297 “a bright shadow”

9 thoughts on “Mary

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