I am made of raw edges in this city of bedlam, and chaos, havoc and wonder,
Marsh grass hides clamor of peepers singing spring. Salamanders scrape fleshy fins on glacial rock, sprinting
The butterflies have turned to metal, exoskeletons dulled,
Concealed beneath its overhanging banks, A river flows, swift, sweet and true still rimmed with ice,
From a second storey window we would drop into freedom, unbound by catechism, custom or guilt.
This is an image from the British census, my grandmother’s name on the final line. Born in a Welsh coal…