Sunday 25 February 2018

Bread

Someone else cut off my head

In a golden field.

Now I am re-created

By her fingers. This

Moulding is more delicate

Than a first kiss,

More deliberate than her own

Rising up

And lying down,

I am fine

As anything in

This legendary garden

Yet I am nothing till

She runs her fingers through me

And shapes me with her skill.

The form that I shall bear

Grows round and white.

It seems I comfort her

Even as she slits my face

And stabs my chest.

Her feeling for perfection is

Absolute.

So I am glad to go through fire

And come out

Shaped like her dream.

In my way

I am all that can happen to men.

I came to life at her finger-ends.

I will go back into her again.

Sunday Independent

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