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Miss Strange Soul

(Jeff Callahan)
She found me harvesting weathered driftwood whenever tides began to ebb. Now, she’s clinging to me like sawdust to a tarnished church bell spiderweb.

Come morning, she drinks my constellations from her tea cup and with marmalade on toast, eats my horizons sunnyside up.

She’s the flicker in a candle steady light, the saint of the self-forgiving night, the plate glass blindfold with jagged pin hole . . . She’s Miss Strange Soul.

I thought I’d lost her under a sliver of terra cotta sky until I saw from a dry riverbottom that ramshackle skylark fly.

And so her hobbled waves still dash against my own wind scorched rocks but that’s until I find my rucksack buried in her hand painted sandbox.