Margaret
Ricketts
Shingles
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
warmed.
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