Brown queen by Oliver Findlay Price

– From catalien

of my imperfections,
mole on my wrist, benign friend –
you prod me to listen to
the cat’s cry of my conscience,

to read the calming
twitch of my cat’s tail.
Or do I come trailing
clouds of glory?

And when I cling to the party mask,
you teach me: walk away from it,
leave all, say no more,
take a ship.

Mine, the skirl of a gull,
the gannet’s plummet – his lost column of salt,
the longbow maker – his straw target,
the flowering leaf in autumn – its winter fall.

And when I ask, why am I here?
Is this an end, a closed road ahead?
you sit me on a dolphin
and glide me into the water-melon moonrise.


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