That’s not what I asked you.
Smooth. No lines of anger, only
the tightening bitterness
of your folded hands.
Use words to run to the red
damp center of your heart,
sit there beating with it.
Turn your face inside-out. Be blank.
Shine like the light hitting the glass
making it a mirror. Reflect.
Use words to turn away.
That’s the only answer you’ll get.
Published in Perigee magazine (online), 2004
©Beth Partin 2004. All rights reserved.
