I return to say that I wrote that poem, however since only my husband is reading these blogs, I suppose it is silly of me to do so, because he knows that I wrote it. I told him. On the other hand, I am nursing a secret hope that maybe some other person could stumble across this space and read my poem and wonder whether or not I wrote it. I did. :-)

The first reality

what comes out is the line
she traces along the inside
of me though her touch is inevitable, to say that
perhaps destroys its beauty (for Some)

my life will be erased by those hands
the ones that Some would call
dead. Would call rubber. In the mornings it is
always the same, I am awoken from nightmares

by touch, I have been beaten all night, or drenched
in salt (preserve my hands) and the sun rises
and the raspberry leaves beckon
me into the kitchen

...although not soo contagious today. I had to go outside in the cold dreary, which does NOT inspire me to dive in to the mood of melancholy that is this day. I suppose it isn't Thursday and that is why but no one should make excuses for bad weather, so I'll stop there.