THE STRETCH OF PAPER, LIKE LINEN


for Sabra I receive your letter and press copies, my fingers piece, the words curve into pockets, bedsheets – catch beneath a lung and up coat sleeves. I am a-move with rustle, pass through the day kneaded soft and blue: I sieve your lines until translucent. Skin is a site of slow memory even as paper rubs itself naked: the body speaks with so many more parts than the tongue has letters to spell.


KELLY MORSE


Kelly Morse lives in Boston, MA and is studying toward an MFA in poetry at Boston University. She is currently working on a collection of poems that revolve around the gaps and absences within language, specifically English and Vietnamese.


dancingegg.blogspot.com ISSUE #28 POETSARTISTS 2011 PAGE #52


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