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by Marie Marchand

Poems come to me in the dark

when my eyes are healed

when I do not distinguish

my body from the air.

In a dream the poems come. 

When I awake, the words fall

from my skin and I forget

the misty-eyes soliloquies

composed like Keats

though I remember him. 

I always remember John Keats

who led me through the 

forest to the emerald

inside the rock, our true love

carved in stone.

Holding his hand

I traipsed in the wake

of his tousled amber hair. 

He wrote odes among

the trees for me.

When you believe in


anything is possible.

Love can be written

centuries apart. 

Marie Marchand 2022 Author Photo.jpg

Marie Marchand (she/her) has been published in Catamaran Literary Reader, California Quarterly, Paterson Literary Review, Tiny Seed Journal, High Plains Register, and numerous chapbooks. Her new book, Gifts to the Attentive, will be published in 2022 by Winter Goose Publishing. Her first collection, Pink Sunset Luminaries, was published in 2018. Read more at and follow her @mishiepoet.

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