Mirrors

1 May 2017

Ink blooms in skin
intent sketched down
in blue.
my blood presses up
against the nib. 
fingers (his) brace 
breast and knee and thigh (mine).
He checks left and right on his hands.

“I don’t want to get it wrong!”

I am touch-seen. Lined.
scars ripped and restitched
re-learned with new hands (yours) if
there is still breast and
knee and thigh (mine) for you
under iodine shadows
and broken fluorescent light,

“I don’t want to get it wrong.” 

You are glass-voiced
smile coiling into cracks
as my blood presses
up against your hand.

This entry was posted in 80: NO THEME VI and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related Posts:

Comments are closed.

Please read Cordite's comments policy before joining the discussion.