[31] PreHensiled, Deborah Saltman

 

It’s almost light and a thumb of the morning presses heavily through the smog streaked window round my neck as you did in yesterdays but now you are in the mist of the forest, enjoying little fingers of sun and the almost homeland green before you enter the sweating tube that is your work’s portal. My mother’s hands at the end of my wrists massaged your feet, exposing the mocking remnants of my summer shellac nails to your parsimonious peds. WE dug deep into the unexposed crypts between your toes and surfaced around your vulnerable heel and YOU gave up all of nothing much.  Now my mind audio books through our past chapters. I’ve named them Siegfrieda, for they are like the mark I kiss on your shoulder at night while you sleep. Slowly healing and revealing. Only to be mine alone when you turn away. Anon, another morning together in an autumnal sunlight flecked with bruised trees. Your mistral propels you elsewhere leaving me to run. At night embracing our new volume, I trace and retrace Pegasus through the smog streaked window until we meet again.

 

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