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Suzanne Louise Bishop


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Army Of You

When you are gone, which is most of the time,
I buy a pack of jelly babies and give each one your name,
Each and all the same, an army of you.
Their soft insides yield to my hot touch, melt like you used to,
Sometimes I rip their heads off, skewer them on a pencil,
Imagine I was a voodoo lady and that you felt my pain.
Mostly though I hoard them in jars, rebuke those with
A sweet tooth. The child in me seeing pastel coloured gems,
Their smiles are mine. There they grow grey, old an

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