Penelope
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
© Caitriona Hansen
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