I
was in a hawthorn,
trapped
in its branches;
all
arms, hands and fingers
prevailing
on me not to struggle.
I
was an exhibit in a jar,
ragged
and shock-eyed,
praying
for a passer-by
where
ravens perch still for hours.
I
was a storm-torn tatter
caught
in another’s stitching;
my
cries drifting into the air
nonchalant
like dandelion seeds.
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