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by Frances Roberts-Reilly | Nov 9, 2015 | issue28
With automatic hand
Your oar, strokes amorously.
Gliding on the river.
Naiveté says, a women’s heart is a white wing,
Flying high and free in the clear blue sky.
Yet hers is a downward winged spiral. A descent.
You know these roads –
Here at the crossroads,
Where Hecate’s hounds
Howl at night.