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My grandfather is a country

My grandfather is a country.
Rough terrain. Etched upon his hands
A map. Rivers and roads and feet above sea level,
Contours in the whorls of his fingertips.
He has carved a path across his palm.
I walk my fingers through its valley,
Sensing the mountains all around –
The untamed mountains,
Volcanic, bronchial.

© Vicky Arthurs 2015 / 2017

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