
“Hurt Into Poetry: On Poetry and Greece”By Stephanos Papadopoulos
She made us settle our feet on the mudFloor of her daub and wattle hut and sheWielded a cane cut from wood that bitInto the palm of the hand and left a burnThat resonated up the arm for an ageAfter its smart swing and crisp contact.Worst of all was the shoe cupboardWhere the old man stored his wireBrushes: a cold, dark, narrow place,Replete with brushes hung on nailsCovering every square inch and saidTo come alive when a child was locked
— ROYGBIV by Fred D'Aguilar

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