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By Mary O'Gara
She beckons
Eyes flashing hand pointing
The way the path
Through mist like smoky veils
Faces hands nameless hands
Lift fire to the wood at my feet
Dry wood flames catch
Lick wool underskirts
Wet from a winter in witch cells
My feet are warm again
As close to their heaven as I am like to get
And it wasn't the fire killed me
That time
Just the smoke.
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