by Pauletta Hansel
like the underside
of a cat's tongue, like
someone else's bathwater,
like bedsheets still warm, like
a spit-wet thumb flicking sleep
from the corner of your mother's
eye, like an old hymn hummed
beneath curdled breath, like
ragged stitches pulled from
a wound. These poems are
too personal.
Copyright ©:
Pauletta Hansel
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