Tuesday, February 7, 2017


The story about Brigid everyone knows
Is of her hanging a cloak on a sunbeam.
Seldom is it remembered she could weave
With cold moonlight. Sometimes in her wrath
She would move three long fingers just so,
And a star guttered in its socket and died.
Before she was a saint she was the goddess
Of standing water. Her shift at the bar ends;
The ice in the machine tries to follow her out.

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