I have been fired in an oven,
crafted by negligent hands.
I’ve been set on the edge of the mantle,
poised as if my one dangling foot was ready to leap,
pirouette across the floor and stretch –
long limbed pale dance in the mirror.

I am everything at once,
all hands and lips and breath
tracing the soft curves and flat planes.

I am alone,
back arched into the mattress,
searching for a wind chime between my thighs,
rubbing a thumb across the tangle of nerve wire
until the edge of the vase fills, opens,

And sings, and sings, and sings.

© Laura A. Lord, 2020

2 thoughts on “Sing

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