You play the fretted verb
of my spine; you
pervade; you sculpt me
to your negative space.
Silvering fish rise
to the wave: my sharp hip
juts, a rock holding out
against the honeyfingered sea.
The string of salted
hours stretches on
as the pins in the lock
keep shifting.
You are plush,
thin-skinned,
quick to act,
in every way a liability.
I am unfit
for human company;
I inhabit a surrogate world.
My hands lately are made of happy wasps.
Go on and crush me
with your bag of chances.
Custom dictates that here we close our eyes
and throw pennies into the future.
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About The Author
Katie Tunning lives in Philadelphia, where she knits, plays Scrabble, and occasionally remembers to write poetry.
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