Poet and freelance writer Maura Dooley was born in Truro, England, and grew up in Bristol.


It’s only a week but already you are slipping

Down cold black chute of history. Postcards.

.Phonecalls. It’s like never having seen the Wall,

Except in pieces on the dusty shelves of friends.

Once I queued for hours to see the moon in a box

Inside a museum, so wild it should have been kept

In a zoo at least but there it was, unremarkable,

A pile of dirt some god had shaken down.

I wait for your letters now: a fleet of strange cargo

With news of changing borders, a heart’s small

Journeys. They’re like the relicts of a saint.

Opening the dry white papers is kissing a bone.

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