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Carol McCormick

For Joshua

I once wrote a poem of a fish,
gutted on some dock,
rainbows, naturally, glinting off scales;
the odd beauty of it’s death.

Still you,
I can barely touch with the pen.
Every attempt delivers
the most peculiar picture;

a tiny slip of a girl perched
over a churn, her ladle shaken,
and cream, free of it’s skin,
spilling, pouring,
over her feet.