by Christine Nichols
At nineteen, I made a fisherman.
Your nuclear perfection
needed to be mine.
Smooth skin unstretched
unlike your growing womb,
dangled a silver lure.
I picked up a red mini skirt,
played a game of peek a boo,
and one of hide and seek.
He fell for the glossed promise
of uncharted territory
for a while.
But in the end he was
less perfect for the journey
And I sent him back
to you.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment