Margaret Ricketts



Jackson Pollock
has sketched a relief
map across my front,
the bumps and welts
of raised
topography, the ace
of spades, the spoors
of mushrooms
as our faded mattress
sags, pressing us together,
in our attempt
to fit into a narrow truth,
the comfort of your right
foot caught between my
shins, my midsections
too warm and scaly for
touch, only our fingertips
reaching out, wrapped and