By | 1 September 2013

After Emily Valentine, 2013

She started out in a factory –
up before the cock crows
and scuffs its spurred, scaled feet

in a land far, far, away (still)
where men and women sleep
in cages, baker’s dozen to each dormitory –

as any piece of plain plastic does

until, landed in the artist’s hand,
unaided by Bede, as ornament
she is feathered, made unique

in a gypsy’s metamorphosis,
hers becoming coquettishly, traitorously his.

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