Eleven Poems

In that space
the life breathes
unspoken exchanges
of body language -

unwritten fiction waits,
so take it,   
move its tip along cracked lips,
but do not 
write me -

between the lines

the words

are not contaminated.

Blank page turning,

the pen, poised with fingers curled -

employ the ink to

cite me.

Sonia Hendy-Isaac

If you have any comments on these poems, Sonia Hendy-Isaac would be pleased to hear from you.

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