We are all only ever stories
passing through the pages
of our own manifestos;
“May we be brave,” she said
to her one-in-five sisters,
“Do not forgive me,” he said
to his one-in-twelve chances,
“Remember my number”      
to the millions of millions.
We flit through the lines and call
it all fate until we tales,
chased by the wild night,
pass silent into the flyleaf.


By Heidi Turner