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The Wild Gods

by Malene Engelund

All this time,

and sleep is still Danish –

conversations guttural

as if rising from mud,

each dream coming through night

in a coat of hoarfrost,

and I wake with a word

ringing clear in the air

like the bell of Sunday.


This morning, spejl.

It scatters light and pictures

of childhood across the room;

snowdrifts sculpt ceiling cornices,

a midsummer fire burns

in the brass door handle,

mum’s dress is a dance in the curtains.

And in the mirror,

the gaze of the girl I was;

dark and questioning, unfamiliar

with this place I’ve chosen as home.

I rise to greet her;

the child is weightless, lit,

a waltz of dust, she turns, and turns,

and turns and walks away.




by Malene Engelund, from The Wild Gods (£6.99, £1.99 Kindle)

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