Oxter she called it, that space
between her chest and bicep, nooked-
out for me. Her elbow rocked, her fingers
tight at the working yarn as a pink ball
bumped its way across the floor, stirred
by its undoing.
As it leaves the ground,
rebuilding itself in her fingers,
caught like a fledgling from the air,
her hands come together in worship,
neatening me into a scarf.
-
Author:
Ryan Robson-Bluer (
Offline) - Published: March 24th, 2023 04:52
- Category: Family
- Views: 12
- User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.
Offline)
Comments1
'her hands come together in worship'
Brilliant!
(I bow to your superior talent, dear Poet
thank you!)
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