Samantha throws a candle –
Still burning – in the air
And then removes a sandal
To better spring a snare.

She fords a rapid river,
A baby at her breast,
Before she cuts a sliver
Of longing from its chest.

She moves among the rushes
And seeks the nests of cranes,
And, though she never blushes,
Her tunic’s full of stains.

I’ve met her sort before,
When gods were still at war.

Photo by Elia Pellegrini on Unsplash

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