The Touch

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I want to hear the slapof your shadowas it hits the floor,the pins and needlesof water fallingtap to tub. I'm tired,and what you knowabout me will soon be writtenon a postcard and passedin the night.

We're down to the last few bites.Those who are in the habitof eating parsley off their plateswill not help us.Wine has cast its blood-shadowacross our cheeks.

I've come in off the streetto confess these crimes.We have several mothers in common,and while they plot our deathsI want to give them somethingto talk about.

I've misspelled my own name so many timesand still I remember every syllableof every spell.Still I remember you hummingalong as the ghostsdrank water in the kitchen,as our mothers counted our fingers and toes.

© Currin Jen