Tuesday, June 17, 2014



She who lives here can call herself
fortunate for knowing where her body
and sense of knowing begin and end

That is a stick and this is my arm
and that is my hand on the railing
and this is my shoveled-in-there love
This is the city turned away from me
but close A sleeping lover

Most things in this life overwhelmingly
are not my body The body is a crumb
of a crumb

and there are even things
smaller and more complex
For every new bar of soap
a chance to admire
how cleanly it leaves itself
for you

No comments

Post a Comment

The Storialist. All rights reserved. © Maira Gall.