by Frances LevistonLike a wet dream this snow-globe was a giftto myself. It rides shotgun in the passenger seator stuck to the dashboard, swirling and swirlingacross the carpet of potholes to my house.Its mantelpiece matryoshkawears an inscrutable face:there’s no telling how many dolls deep she goesbeyond her one red peanut-shell,her pupa’s lacquered shine,superglued to a painted knoll, brilliantly magnifiedby an atmosphere of cerebrospinal fluidunder the smooth glass dome’s museum,a solid case of ozone.When I do a U-turn it triggers another storm.Her compass boggles. Lie down there in that drift,little girl, you’re feeling strangely warm,and something big is about to make senseif we just keep going in the opposite direction.Poetrytheguardian.com © 2013 Guardian News and Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds …read more

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