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Cluster index: Mélisande Fitzsimons

Three prose poems.

By Mélisande Fitzsimons. ◊ Alone in her Prison Cell, Aliénor d’Aquitaine Reflects on the Randomness of Language and History ngland, England, land of sputum and spit, I love it. I have always loved your spirit, even when your buttery tongue licked me into near losing the deep fur, felt sounds of my own. Against the […]

‘Something’ and two more prose poems.

Mélisande Fitzsimons: ‘Pain steals dreams and memories. Feathers make me thirsty, and I want to lick the puddle the prince left behind after the storm tonight. In the silence of sleep, everything becomes sacred, but there is nothing white about the night.’