susan smith nash
The
dark is breathless
in
this raw night.
My
former idea,
who
I thought I was –
I
am liquid
ink
soaking into a page,
dye
sponged up by cloth,
tears
sinking
into
someone's skin.
hot
wet nights, hotter days
confession
is a way
to
deliverance
to
a field knee-high with leaves
to
a wealth of realities
excruciating
like
pearls