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Maxine Rose Munro is a Shetlander adrift on the outskirts of Glasgow. After spending the first eighteen years of her life exclusively on the islands, without even a small break for the holidays, the culture shock experienced on eventually seeing the wider world rocked her to her core and is still rocking some decades later. However, as the end result appears to be poetry, she is fairly ok with this. She has been writing poetry in for a few years now and her work has been widely published, including in Northwords Now; Glasgow Review of Books; Pushing Out the Boat; and The Eildon Tree. More recently she has begun to publish poetry in her native Shetland Scots, something very close to her heart and much, much harder to do than she would ever have believed when she first started out. Her most recent Shetlandic poems can be found in Poetry Scotland and Three Drops from a Cauldron. Find her here www.maxinerosemunro.com

Took the moon 

I reached out and took the moon
in my hand. I know others think
she's still there in the blueblack
sky lighting the world like always,
but they're wrong. I keep shut
my fist, fingers cage to a celestial
body. Bones shadow skin bursting
with moonlight and I've taken to
wearing mittens. I thought I could
hold her, just for a minute, set her
free, but my hand clenched around
shine too tight to let go and here
we are, each trapped by the other.
She'd leave if she could of course.
This predicament secretly pleases
me, and after all the moon bears
no grudges. Or so I've heard. I'll take
her home with me to gleam in
my room, sprinkle light over bed
and books, cupboards and coffee
cups. I think we'll be very happy,
the moon and me, I think. Now
that I am her. Now that she is we.

Dead eyes 

I watched a spider eat a moth today.
A small brown thing, the moth, caught
in threads hung upon a hedge. 

Slightly fatter, the spider, brown too,
took it, spun it, bit it. I imagined
the moth's eyes were filled with panic,
but how am I to know how true that was?

It was ten in the morning.
Come three mid-afternoon, the moth
was a shrunken, empty husk. 

Though its eyes, somehow, still held panic.

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Took the moon  I reached out and took the moon in my hand. I know others think she’s still there in the blueblack sky lighting the world like always, but they’re wrong. I keep shut my fist, fingers cage to a celestial body. Bones shadow skin bursting with moonlight and I’ve taken to wearing mittens. …

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