J. S. Watts
THE MAKING OF STEELYARD SUE
Blodeuwedd of the scrap yard, though they made me with iron, not flowers. Bent and buckled metal: hub caps, valves and pistons, spare parts, abandoned junk, all have a home within me. Rust blossoms instead of corn cockles and red horse chestnut. No one will die for love of me. No one will tell stories. Small birds are wary, scarecrow of the rubbish heap, but at night a thing with yellow saucers for eyes and hooks for feet perches within my lonely ribs and shrieks defiance at the moon.
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