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Weekly Poem: ‘Doctor Frankenstein on Love’

I gave him everything I love,
The high forehead,
which looks so endearing on babies,
on his face
became a frightening cliff-drop
of skull,
and the vacant eyes,
with their hint of lethal hurt,
were the same cornflower-blue irises
I plucked
from the beggared sockets
of the dead.

I thought we could live again,
like memory,
that we would rise from unrequited
as only bodies carefully
from remnants can.

But he lurches like an old film
and dreams in a language
not his own;
sometimes just the white amnesia
of a flower
makes him weep.


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