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"A Walk into Light", "All the Skin I Have", and "Making Jelly" by Marie Little

A Walk into Light

Midnight trails between my toes, I

pace the garden’s perimeter, as if

mapping a treasure hunt, squirrelling

eggs. This is not my home.

From each plant: a leaf, a petal

uncurled onto my tongue like wafer.

Each a new word: joy, forgiveness

silence. I pause for Fibonacci to show

himself in leaflets, stamens

– me –

expound infinite scriptures

across my tongue.

Through the dark I taste a

nettle-green promise.

Blossom melts, hope-flavoured

as fleeting as sky.

All the Skin I Have

Did you cut your teeth on

the injustice of it all?

Was the answer always too far

away, never a long enough stick

to hand?

Did they mock you?

For the sounds and smells

nights you wound it all about you like

a pain to be crushed, squeezed into


They have all left their marks.

Brands, tattoos, scars, each

and every one invisible.

Making Jelly

From the pick when we weaved together

meeting at prickled ends, smiles stained

to the smush and squash, the squeeze of

a scarlet muslin, hung like a stick-bladder

dripping, syrupy, into the Mason Cash. I

never really asked what, why; watched you

like telly and asked to squidge the fruit bag:

worse than a nappy, a bleed, sating enough

for a onetimeonly into the bowl. I think of

it now, pressing sauce lumps with the

back of a spoon. It feels like a lesson.


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