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Sometimes I stopped in the center
looked down on the creek’s meander
no end or beginning I could see
and I’d dream.

During the drought it dried up
draping the stones in dust like powder
on my grandmother’s cheeks.
Through she-oaks she whispered to me –

you needn’t have kept the keys
to the other country.
Bridges never burn easily.
Sometimes the glass remains empty.
Lonely people don’t live longer
that’s only how it feels.

 


Mercedes Webb-Pullman graduated from IIML Victoria University Wellington New Zealand MA in Creative Writing 2011. Her work appears online (Danse Macabre, Black Mail Press, Turbine, 4th Floor, Swamp, Reconfigurations, The Electronic Bridge, Bone Orchard Poetry, poetryrepairs, Connotations, The Red Room) and in print (Numeralla Dreaming, After the Danse, Food 4 Thought) She lives on the Kapiti Coast, New Zealand.

© 2013, Mercedes Webb-Pullman

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