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That fire, they said, was red as red as redas red as a fox, your lips, a cherry;that fire, they said spread and spread and spread,faster than a cheetah or a nasty rumour;
The living room remembers Gran dancing to Count Bessie.The kitchen can still hear my aunts fighting on Christmas Day.The hall is worried about the loose banister.
Toothless, she kisseswith fleshy lipsrounded, like mouthof a bottle, all wet
She bruises your facealmost, with twoloving tree-root hands.
Take an apple. Chop it into quarters.Count out three. These represent the lakesthat nestle inside countries, all the snaking
Which can be brushed out long and fineto lie across a pillowor bunched and scrunched into an angryknot of rain before it is undone, when long hanks of it hang
The light through the blind is a poem,
the way it illuminates air.
And the shadows that fall
on the floor and the wall
are signs that a poem is there.
The sea lays big glass hands on the sand,spreading its fingers out as if newto the shore. It can’t quite believe in it.It wants to hold on before the glass breaks.
A plant called loveA plant called hate
I grew them both in my garden.The plant called love was hard work.