Ouroboros by Jane Frank

Your One Phone Call

We’re not afraid
of the serpent.
Our intricate memories,
like lace,
will stretch and hold,
help us navigate
as we ride its curved back
to the horizon.
Grey will turn to white heat,
the green of home just a whisper
like the wash inside a shell.
We’ll shed old skin
among the gum and wattle,
metamorphose into summer,
understand inside out
what it means to be home.

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