Monday, June 01, 2009


She holds the glass under
water to wash away all remains
of human contact. On the rim
where the lips touched, the curve
where the fingers pressed, her disgust
accumulates. She clenches the glass
suddenly no longer a glass
but a cloud of scythes,
one stuck in her hand like a burr.

1 comment:

  1. I used to write poetry about cutting, but thankfully there is no need anymore.