Daemon by Maggie Mackay

When she was a child, we sat close by her father.
We learned together, symbols, figures, words
and how to piece them together.
we shared tears, first love, flatmates,
pupils who admired and insulted her ways.
I prowled, I growled. As a wife she despaired.
The two of us existed alone
for a long time, houdinis in a world of traps.
As a writer she found language, an escape into dreams.
We sing, growl, crunch jaw and teeth, gnaw at trouble,
I warn of trouble. At sunrise, gloaming, midnight
I bow at her feet, tail high, eyes piercing
through her skull, hair copper like mine.
Just as I herd sheep, my spirit has a will to drive her
from the plain towards the extraordinary.
I’m never without her, shadow by her heel,
breath fogging the earth, ears pricked to her calling.


Maggie Mackay is a jazz and whisky loving MA poet with work online and in printincluding the Saboteur Award winning #MeToo anthology.  Her poems have been nominated for The Forward Prize, Best Single Poem in 2017 and 2018 and for the Pushcart Prize last year. Her first pamphlet will be published this year by Picaroon Poetry. She begins her PhD in the autumn.

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