Null

its a tip-toe in the alley
with wild eyes to the stopwatch
this slow walk Sunday
wearing rape like her shadow
a pocket of lost -something. . .
his numb flesh steal exudes the
void in the sky, a slow blow
over and down; until she's numb.
it was home, the weave of new fabric
life used to fit under her sundress
and now she says, with a blank
in her voice:  don't feel
safe in my skin, anymore.

[next poem]
[words] [menu] [mail]
[back a poem]

© Denise Angela Celeste, 1997.