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Salmon Poetry

Hard Chaw

Eithne Hand

Harry was her fellah
but only cos she said so.

Too scared to refuse,
he walked her home;

promised to sit with her
at the Saturday game.

They met at half past,
walked with the crowd

to the grassy goal end, 
bumping shoulders

just a little too often.
If he had to kiss her

it would be his first.
At half time he heard

her whisper low
he loves me / he loves me not.

Surprised, he leaned in, 
then saw her bitten fingers

slowly pulling the legs
from a living spider. 

Copyright © Eithne Hand 2020

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