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by Susan Terris

  • The mirror in the alcove catches
  • the northern drift of the bay.
  • The last apples are windfall now.
  • Here where granite and shingle merge,
  • a solitary woman shifts in and out
  • of shadow, as her moccasins scuff snake-lines
  • in the tidal zone. Her consolation:
  • a shard of Chinese pottery left
  • by receding water, an unbruised apple.
  • Here the shadows have probing hands.
  • She would try to escape but they finger
  • her name and her secrets.
  • She would turn back, shatter
  • the mirror. But then, how would she
  • know who she is?

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