Monday, 17 June 2013



The nib, her tongue, poised, set to speak
to taste the paper, taste her chance, kiss it
make love to it, mark her love on it, unique.
She curves, kinks under my hand, love illicit.
My script is her garments, punctuation
is her jewellery. I am her body
she, still loyal to me despite her flirtation
with the page. People see me in her, my copy
her stories are make-up, her mask of me
the title is her perfume, an extra hint
through the flowing of her hair I am free
my mistakes are her own misprints.
But even with my power I limit us
my own mind stops, she falls and is lifeless.

 © Caitriona Hansen

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