Confession of Stra Schrag, No. 4
Pressing hard, I rub my finger,
My digit with the wedding ring,
Over the table's wood.
I rub again and again,
The wood is more responsive
Than my husband.
The wood feels warm like skin.
There is the forest's heat in the table.
In my husband, only his mother's voice and coins.
My husband's skin is gone,
only stock market reports,
Stadiums, and pornography movies cover his bones
He has no flesh.
This wood has known the kisses of wood nymphs.
My husband knows my abstract measurements,
But not my wood.
Duane Locke
Posted over on Unlikely Stories
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