Poetry

Cassandra Dickinson: Three Poems

Ukrainian Baba   My grandmother held the sun in her hands Her palms had touched the world, Skin tough from breaking off big chunks of it like bread, That she savoured through her starving years. At five years old, I was convinced of their magic, I held them tight, turning each over like a compass To find secret entry into a land that was lost to me. In her palms, I read fairy tales in the deep lines, That led like narrow paths into the past. She whispered spells into my ear, In a language I could barely understand “Ya…

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