Kristin Abraham

Studies for the Sound of Self

 

She has a way of turning leaves

down the road with her voice—

soft scratch-scatter and it’s altogether

not her anymore, still moving, still hoping for the

twist in the knee, the slight sore bend

in a knot at the edge of the bed

 

Skin like a fist in a sock, stretching

as far as

the sound of the give,

just before the give

 

He’s got her

like that, here for so long:

the twist of her hips

the painful cramp

of sleep or never

moving from sleep,

though she wants to,

though her body tends that way—

 

Then everything’s looser

even when there is no rip

there is

the sound of the tear

 

All her limbs are thrown in that direction

and her leg another stripe in the sheet,

thick white with veins

just slow blue there                                                 

under the surface,

and somewhere in that twist

is the scream of her pulse,

the artery in her thigh.

 

Echo

Kristin Abraham: Bio

 

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