what


            There is nothing left of me

            but what you put there

            "there, there,"

            mother said.

            That always made it better,

            somehow.

            So I say "yes,

            there, there."


            You have stained

            my walls

            brick by brick

            you and your

            searching stick

            me with pins

            getting in

            Me,

            a five-pointed star

            stretched across the sheet,

            you,

            pushing on,

            with a look, (not sweet)

            over my bones,

            down to my feet.

            And there you turn,

            with action discreet,

            your head just so,

            you stretch out

            your tongue

            to my big toe.

            And catch what comes off.

            (so sweet)

Lisa's other works