They line the verges, the magpies,
Of the path we must go down now.
And in stepping past they are aggravated,
Throwing their heads back;
We must lower our heads under
The volley of their calls until we are bowed
With eyes fixed on the dirt.
There are so many we can't count our fortune.
And how they gouge our ankles, tear our clothes;
we cannot run with the lungs of the dead in our chests.
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Published by alyssiaonline
Alyssia MacAlister is a writer, editor, artist and mother, who lives with her partner in Brighton. On both page and stage, Alyssia is concerned with exploring narratives with a poetic frame, finding the beautiful in the strange. In writing she can find unspoken traumas and the meanings behind silences. Wide-ranging past interests include virtual reality and the female body, spiders and grief. Alyssia’s specialty is prose poetry, but she often works in found poetry and experiments with more traditional verse. In addition, Alyssia writes lucid fiction and essays, while also creating artwork mostly in pencil. She also has a scalpel eye for editing any kind of poetry or prose and can produce poetry workshops.
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