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Zoe Green: a poem



Bowl


In Feng Shui, they say that chipped crockery

attracts bad qi. My mother is a broken


bowl, early twentieth century, provenance

Auchtertool. The Japanese rebirth broken


pots through process of Kintsugi, through which

shards are soldered together with liquid gold.


My mother's anger sears white hot as solder.

She's a crooked spring, a mangled Jack-in-the-Box


that jump-shocks the moon-faced crowd. What

have I done – but the witch in her burns hot,


itching for mischief: she will hurt me if she can.

Lo, her eyes are white-hot pins for poppets.


I have my pool of the self-same ore. Holding it

from others requires that I run to sea or woods


and let the waves or wind wash it away; let

the waves or boughs break – not my little bowl.



Originally from Montrose, Zoë Green lives and works in Vienna and Berlin. By day, she is a drama teacher; by night, a poet. Her poetry has featured in the London Magazine, Atrium and Ink Sweat and Tears, and is forthcoming in Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter’s House and Sidhe-Press. She is currently assembling her first pamphlet.

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