by Mona Arshi
I sit at the kitchen table where
the light is best, where the light is.
As mute as dawn, I blink her out,
examine her hands, ink-stained
and cold, her neck creaking like an
iron hinge cooling on a gate.
I search the patch pockets of
her dress, full of tiny perforated
shells and small yolk-coloured flowers
ruining the lining and I run my fingers along
her back and through her hair which flows
like lava across her pale collarbones.
When I flinch, she flinches, this
soft girl, this churning broken song.
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