Read Poetry: Desks, by Tessa Foley

POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film.

He would never have told her, drawn and cauterised
He watched her in cold concentration and believed
She’d one day touch his knee on motorways and wear his
Own green shirt to draw the curtains. He can note she’s not
Perfect from twelve inches close, but if that were true, how is it so?
That he can count his ribs with his heart’s top right tongue
When all that she does is touch finger to the bridge of her nose
Or scrabble at files’ spinal tab, one fingernail picking the stubbornest
Glue. When she spells ‘U’ on the phone, in the morning,
He thinks she means him and stands to the side
Of her pinched profiled face. When she yawns, he sees
Smokes of her hair on his pillows, when she cracks her wrist joint,
He feels the encircle of bones, She’s what he’d call his Darling
If he could…

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