Elisabeth de Mariaffi

ISBN: 978-0-9810875-8-0
24 pp
Fall 2009



A skill saw rips a path through the soft
pad below your thumb, misses arteries,
veins, tendons. We agree on luck
& you catch your wrist to the light,
tell me how the scar burns now
the frost has come, wound stitched
with the carbon heads of matches.

How you watched me as I slept, left
notes for me to find the next day;
by then it was you
sleeping. Used to taking our rest
in turns, like sentries
keeping guard, looking out
for our own best possessions.

Only the blank
windows saw this. Where else
do you find
the worst in anyone?

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