Hunting
A question hovered
like paper in a breeze,
without direction, flat.
I looked at you
with your shirt of fishing nets.
Your smile tucked
like a gun on your face.
Your eyes, knife blades.
I wanted to speak.
I wanted to pry my lips open,
to allow the bubbles to surface
and burst open with screams.
Watching your hands
drop the work you carried,
scattering the fragments of thoughts like scents.
I closed my mouth again.
The trap was already sprung.
Copyright © 2012 by Valentina Cano
If you haven't already, check out Randomly Accessed Poetics first publication: Issue 1: The Texture of Words.
No comments:
Post a Comment