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Grendel’s Mother

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When the moon’s worn scutcheon
touches the flint-gray flood,
I will lave him in foxglove
and vetch until the blood
of his wretched heart heals.

Without a scar, he stood—

as the men make their way
into the quaking wood.

Source: Poetry (November 2011)

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This poem originally appeared in the November 2011 issue of Poetry magazine

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Grendel’s Mother

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