Doreen Smith McAullister


norwegian fjord

I had a little jewel-box and this is what I kept. A single dragon wing. A copper colored penny from 1959. A plastic salt shaker from an airplane ride that was red and the size of any ordinary sewing thimble. In it too were memories. There was not a single object else. A diamond bracelet I had never received. A trip across Ireland in a tinker covered wagon never made. The smell of the hand-carved sandalwood always still reached me. And the smooth feeling of the hinges when the top was opening and closing still pleased me…Below the deck traveling one night alone the half-carved block of Gjetost cheese I heaved from the lower porthole into the mouth of the fjord’s waters this relieved me so much I smiled before the arctic moon probably hiding somewhere else. The splash of it I never heard. The loss of its awful raw milky taste must live in me for miles a while longer.


(read, play, experiment @




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