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 Editors

The author Lot's Wife Editors

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