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Bewitched

Renee Ng

Pink decorative waves

We are stumbling

down to the lake, arms locked,

pale and sticky with honey and humanity.

The wind sings a reel

cajoling my body into the right steps.

 

   My friends are here, are they not?

   These hands are their hands

   These are their faces, reflected in my eyes.

 

There is a rustling in the woods, a shifting

in the leaves

The stone has a face, or maybe it’s a mirage

of moss and ivy. Maybe its a ghost

from a dream.

My friends are laughing.

   I do not know their names.

   They are as faceless as the moon.

 

We are in the water

which ripples with words abandoned by time.

Beneath my feet are all the forgotten things, sacrifices

for the waves to pick and break and drink and savour.

A penny, a bone, a pocket watch, a name—

The water takes them all.

My friends smile as the current caresses me.

 

   Are they my friends?

                   are

                     you?

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