After your skin,

a list of things i’ve touched:

cigarette butts shoe shined with lipgloss
my key fob clutched, knuckles catching tears.

the sticky, hollow plastic of an airline tray
hands pressed on the cold stone of a ruined city;
the distance between us an undetonated landmine, held,
in my tender, nerve-wracked palms.

i’ve traced the grain of wood softened by sunlight,
seized fistfuls of sheets,
felt hand-me-down white gold;
                                                and
                                                            it’s weight.

my own thighs, pliable
my own breasts, nostalgic
bottle caps and necks
the smooth, indifferent end call button.

cereals bowls, remote controls, bubble bath
i have pushed back against the domestic, stray-haired wave at the local pool;
hot on a july morning, i felt the lanugo of my firstborn.

the indentation of words on a page
pressed too harshly to be considered casual,
the cool paper cut edge of a calendar
and countless spines of books i assault
with greedy fingers, hunting
for the exact prose to answer my dissertation question:
can i ever wash it off?

Lauren Ebright is an emerging writer living and forgetting to breathe deeply in the Pacific Northwest. Her work can also be found online at Dime Show Review.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to After your skin,

  1. Lauren Ebright says:

    Thank you!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s