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Spadina Literary Review  —  edition 25 page 16



by Pat Connors

Sun shines low in the sky.
Cool, clear, crisp air
waves gently across a fertile world —
it is time to sleep.

I am cold,
dark, closed over.
Restless, nothing
has come out of me for some time.

Once formable clay
has become a shell of myself.
I have let the world trick me
into believing this is my reality.

I have become the result
of constant bitterness
of engaging in battles
not worth fighting.

I choke back life, swallowing
my tongue and tears until they are gone.
My face set like stone, my footsteps wary
I barely make it through another day.

Oh dear one, break me open.
Let the cracks bring in
fresh air, water and light
while the seeds within me can still grow.