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written by: Sarra Culleno



She slept on my chest every weekend of her life,
but love's familiarity evaporates.
Puppy fat stretches over elongating bones,
while affinity withers in each week’s embrace

She's so close. Her pudgy hand reaches out
through pushchair restraints, her stretch to find mine.
Oh baby girl, I lament, we can’t touch.
This abstraction is hieroglyphs… white noise:
But you my friend. You my auntie.
And you are my Darling, angel girl.
Our attachment is palpable, we both feel it.
And I am so close to
stroking her doughy, velvet cheek,
cupping her delicious double chins in my palms,
planting my kisses into her feathery hair,
squeezing her cherub form into my chest and stomach,
tickling her treasured ribs.

Amputation grief:
When I next hold her,
we will have been cleaved.
She will be tall, lithe.
We’ll be forgotten.

Sarra Culleno

Sarra Culleno

Sarra Culleno is a poet, mother and English teacher who performs at poetry events across the UK. She writes about children’s rights, motherhood, identity, gender, age, technology, the environment, politics, modern monogamy and education. Sarra is widely published. She features in many podcasts and radio shows, and was longlisted for the Cinnamon Press Pamphlet Prize. Sarra co-hosts Write Out Loud at Waterside Arts, and has performed as guest poet at numerous literary festivals.
Sarra Culleno

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Poisoned Trees And Yellow Grass, an excerpt by Karen Clark at Spillwords.com
Poisoned Trees And Yellow Grass

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