Sunday, 29 April 2012

Poem by the Norwegian writer
Gro Dahle

I carve my daughter

I carve my daughter out of sallow. Whittle a flute
from her fingers. When I blow on her, I hear
how beautifully she cries.

I dress myself with my child. A coat of mail. Armour. A
daughter shield. Hold her in front of me on my lap.
My lap is a throne. The people are jubilant.

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