The Matchgirl Grown Up
She had never cared what others thought
and didn’t now
that clockwork let “the cripple” dance
light as thistledown.
They didn’t know
the agony to wind the legs,
the bleeding hands that worked the key.
She wrapped her palms in linen rags
and watched her daughter dance.
Good, bad, indifferent … I’m hoping to write more poetry in 2012 and even submit to some ‘zines. One of the things I’ll need to chase down is who publishes steampunk poetry. Any ideas?