August 8

It’s dark, in this cupboard, at night,
the door shut tight, my label straight
and the seal still intact on the can
they packed me in. My juice

is stewing and makes me stink
of my own devolution. I’m sleeping
when I should be in field, with friends
in a barn, in the belly of all the animals.

It’s dark, in this cupboard, at night,
blinds pulled tight and not a sound
until the hiss of tin on tin abounds
to come and finally let me out.

It’s greed, I say, that I should belong
to you alone, that the whole of me
should wait for your wants to unwrap me
and until then I must life hidden.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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