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by Charlotte Jackson

I wonder if thirst unmakes you, makes you

prone to drawing meaning out of stones,

to finding divinity in a cut nail

or at the bottom of a cool well, squat

as a waitful toad, your skin soft with water.

A boulder gathers grit by your ear- 

one reddish night it tumours its way in.

Your hands scrabble for crumbs,

carpeted stale constellations, for pearls,

mothers, teeth, to thread round your neck.

You are damp to the touch

outline fossilised in this wet bower

and at some unripe hour the moon

makes liquid pearls of your knuckles, and

you begin to ask yourself

if there is a shard of fishwife salt

wedged in your spine, your

hard walls growing long towards the light.

CHARLOTTE JACKSON has recently completed her undergraduate degree in English and Spanish. Her work has appeared previously in the Isis Magazine and Cuntry Living Zine.

Art by Abigail Hodges

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