| Personal Effects A year to the day after the end, the box, wearing thin as patience, splits. Worn leather gloves spill out. The woman gathers them in the usual way and breathes in the scent that lingers there. The man had a hand that could stall time. He mapped the world of her skin with fingers, curved and soft, like the ones that touch her now, a thing still supple with life, unwilling to let go. Cheryl Snell If you've any comment on this poem, Cheryl Snell would be pleased to hear from you. |
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