Poetry & Prose


Clip the hair from the back of my neck, my neck. I know your small fingers won’t lull anything to sleep. I know they’ll prick and linger like soft needles. You’re shopping for an opening, I’m a gazelle. My ears twitch. Can’t catch the sound I need.

When you’ve finished, and the light works its tendrils into the room, put down the wet rag, the dirty brush, and wait for me on the couch. Dozens of tiny thoughts crowd out the light, they will.

Don’t cross your arms like that.

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