by Kathleen O’Neil
That strip of cloth is mordant red. I’d
wrestle it, but who wants to be alone?
Such a deceptive slip of cloth laid out
over velvet cream skin.
My little amoret.
Touches you lay over yourself say it all.
It’s autonomous, a cryptex of brocade and cambric
We’re lucky we haven’t crossed yet;
don’t cut your
hands on things you’re not ready for.
Burn a porcupine needle and put
the grey soft sand in
Don like a scarf; now batter my heart. I’m
Kathleen O’Neil went to McGill University and volunteers for several organizations. Her interests are in travel and Etruscan cave tombs. She is a perfume enthusiast and enjoys the books of Frances Parkinson Keyes.