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is the grip of my lover’s tender touch;

ground sin through white knuckles. I know where

 

your hands once rested by the burns and bruises in

the land where you split me by my ribs, bone

 

dented where your fingers lay. Shibboleth!

I recognise you by the space you take

 

up, so for fun, let’s mark where you were in

blue heaven, little spots of red, zappo pink &

sticky sunnyboy heat before you leave. Paint

 

this body, a canvas learning colour,

our fingerprints thick bold acrylic petals

 

scraped clean on those gingham art smocks.

But we are not two kids in Primary School,

 

and the art we make is not something mama

hangs on the fridge.  I remember your hands there,

 

and I’m telling you babe,

come on over –

 

Written by Audrey El Osta

Lot's Wife

The author Lot's Wife

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