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Amy McNamara

supplicants at the augury

depending on the reading of the birds

or     the waters are calm     or

today they lash at us like iced whips

still, the film over our eyes
     (oh how it is to be deprived)
our hands fingering the air

and the singing     all kinds of it

they float in the fore

like mums around the crowns
of happy girls

fast action-ers, last chancers
clothed in lack; loathe cloaks

they are holy halos, hat fasteners,
or the wail of a siren, far, far aft

Amy McNamara is a writer and photographer in Brooklyn, New York. Her poems have appeared in Barrow Street, Conduit, jubilat, Linebreak, The Literary Review, and elsewhere. She sometimes blogs at paperbuttersugarprint. contact