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Bending her will is an
impossible feat.
Many are the casualties:
the sunflowers
surrounding her country estate
bloom from their ashes.
In any crowd, she
seizes the epicentre,
ignites
the well of space,
her red hair and green eyes.
Once her mind is set, the act
is done: car hoods catch fire,
ice shatters;
she is a subglacial
volcano’s sulphuric promise
across distant lakes.
When she’s gone,
the afterimage burns on:
red eyes,
green hair
follow you everywhere.
Queen
of Rods
by Clara Blackwood
from: Visitations,
©2004
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