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Sunday MAG
April 23, 2014
Seven long months
in a house by the sea
and every morning
he sits on the edge of the dock
reeling in something beautiful
and hers are the softest calves
and hers are the knobbiest joints
and hers are the
odd, wrinkled
lips that taste like curry.
On Sunday
They sat and stared at sailboats
and the fish are cutthroat hooligans
for a morsel of human food
Then he slunk his fingers shamefacedly between hers
And the camera zooms in
to a closeup
her bitten cuticles
And he can feel their pulses touching
through thin wrist skin
© Anonymous
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