Friday, April 9, 2010



In the north corner of my room
is a basket. Hoop handled,
caramel wicker, woven
with a light touch.

It's lined with the way
my arms rocked my babies,
stores the imprints of handshakes,
a paw print, a slap.

Tissued boxes keep
the licks of my lovers' tongues
as they surveyed my skin's
budding credentials.

Harder to see are the
traces of kisses blown
past my cheeks by
people long forgotten.

© Marilyn Hammick

First published in Prole, Poetry and Prose, Issue 1. 2010

No comments:

Post a Comment