There is a thorn buried deep in my hand that goes unnoticed
Most of the time
But when least expected
An innocent touch brings out a throbbing pain.
When this retreats
I wonder where this thorn is travelling –
I want to dig it out but it is stubborn and shy,
Preferring to hide just out of reach
But not out of touch.
I have grown allergic to memory
Fearing that the merest brush will produce
A rash of bitter longing
That will crack the careful dressing and reveal
The still festering sore
Beneath.
No comments:
Post a Comment