Mary Cafferty

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Mary Cafferty enjoys the sound of typewriter keys. She frequently perches on the edge of her seat, as though ready to dash from the room at any moment. As such, she is elusive.


On Substitution

I keep thinking about
what I borrowed from you.
The night gone on too long.
Stars that looked and felt
like chicken wire, the feeling
of being severed. The way
we all kept turning into ice.

At one time, all of this
had a sequence, until I
became the Ice on the Road.
Until I became the Sharp
Taste of Rust in Your Mouth.
Until I was the Scream, the
Rendering. Until I was the Glass.
It was my doing, I’m sorry,
but I am shattering too. Glass
to earth, earth to ice, each thing
sliding out of its own and
only shape.

Maybe it was the world
I swallowed and it leaked
out of me in dark ribbons
ribboning outward. I could
be the Spark, the Catch. I
could be the End of All Things.

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