By Marie Cloutier
Copyright ©2024
Your fingers weren't ash
the night they were inside me.
You shocked the bloom from my legs
when I heard your slang words for pussy.
Your fingers weren't ash
bobbling the room key in the rain,
our wet shoes long forgotten
in echoed wordless conversation.
Your fingers are now ash
and yet they grip me once again,
strum me back to the memory
of that one and only day.
About Marie Cloutier:
Marie Cloutier writes poetry and creative nonfiction just outside New York City. She is working on a memoir and is an avid quilter and beginner piano student. Her work has appeared in Haiku Universe, edrosethorns and Scribe micro fiction. Her website is www.mariecloutier.com.
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