Talking Salamanders

— Janet Trenchard

If my toenails bore
the chipped remains of frosty orange,
red or pink, I could almost see
the thin, milky line
that silhouettes the skin
of the Disney heroines
begin to trace my toes and fingers.
But that glow . . .
was it only on their skin?
Setting them apart?
Denoting a magical race,
self-luminous, radiant,
put here to be our gods?
Or do they simply inhabit
an atavistic realm,
Latterday Animists
talking to salamanders,
the holy grace shining out of everything?

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