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Poetry

All the maps of Russia stop at Moscow

Katherine Venn

but home lies somewhere beyond, under

the blue bowl of sky, ceramic, unglazed.

I've heard tell of vast forests, immense fields,

black soil. But there are no maps, and

my only clue is a mustard seed wrapped

in cabbage-leaf complexities of skin

and heart. I must make my own way, collect

to myself the riches I hope to find:

a pinecone, a tug of sheep's wool, a smooth

pebble, a papery seedcase, a sea shell.

I am a riffle in a stream, catching

particles of gold; of light. And if there is,

after all, a home to be found, I need

to see the shining thread, to feel its pull.

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