Thursday, July 10, 2014


Being one who wanted always
to prod the polish of a painting,
and prick myself on its stippled skin;
to bury my face in a fall of hair;
to lay my head, entraining
to the thin cotton and the nippled hint;
to thrust my fingers in the floral foam
to feel its dry and grainy clasp –
given all this ache and lapse,
tell me again, bring it home,
tell me how it happened that we alone
must carry the weight of our people's sin?


Anonymous said...

I loved the textures you manages to pull through from tactile to verbal in this poem…lovely. (o)


NT said...

Awesome half-rhymes throughout. Props to you for both your craft and your art.

Kristen Burkholder said...

my goodness. gorgeous. heartaching.