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An Ode to Brotherton

Sat in eerie silence,

the kind that suspends,

borrowing grief from the future.

Reaching through

with sticky hands,

to steal something I can call mine.

 

In the same way,

a sweet friend took the floor with him when he left.

A souvenir for his struggles -

will the feeling ever fade?

The need to hold something close.

To fold your palms tight,

 

to write it all down,

in a language you understand.

Does the book ache to return to the tree?

It can no longer lend its knowledge to me.

It’s carved into,

by the same foolish hubris

that makes me want to pocket the floor.


Words by Bea Butterworth, she/they

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