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Maddy Robinson 


I feel this love as fingers around

a crystal vase. You are more


hollow. Air-conditioned

bone marrow. And antlers.


And there is my heart,

knee-deep, in tracks:

sundown snowdrift crevasse          

                                    you can see from above the Earth


by spaceship. An owl’s nest.




I walk in the tracks of my children. Soft eiderdown magician’s flick saltsparkle. The upside-down night.

I felt you before your arrival; I knew you were there. Like an unseen planet, without spectrometer railways,

tortoise in the grey fingerprint hardened earth.


I walk in the tracks of my children. They spell LOVE.




Peel mother mary, her curtain

sleeves from the matchbox

collars, feverish yellow light

             from a candle in a distant window—


Snowflake vessel. I warm her

love between palms. Feather

in the wintering. Remember;

omen. And her glinting visitor,

bright shining stranger, warmth

that can only be imagined,

ember of home.

Maddy Robinson is a writer based in the Rocky Mountains. She is currently working on a collection on travel writing. Her work has been featured on other platforms, including CBC Books, the Ember Chasm Review, and the Viewless Wings poetry podcast. You can find her @maddylibs.

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