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The Petrifying Well
My name
is Mother Shipton's husband
and I have been
writing letter after letter
but
no one ever seems to read them.
​
On a winter morning
she woke me
and kissed both
my cheeks
before melting into the wall
to listen to the moths.
We rarely spoke to each other.
Still I found myself
dreaming of
her
ivy
green
eyes
and eavesdropping on her prophecies
as if they were the holiest secret songs.
​
In my very last letter
I wrote of August
and how the boats sank to nothing and how
I heard she was a beast
so I kissed her on the mouth and
held her and held her and held her.
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