Claire Gaskin Poetry

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My body

 

His bleeding was into a shallow garden.
The sky comes down around the house.

It is a dead room
with unusually high sound absorption.
His sweat was dripping in my face.

My body not a crime scene.

Regret a pearl pursed on her
clay lips.

 

 


From Claire Gaskin’s collection, a bud.

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This entry was posted in a bud, poems on January 12, 2020 by Claire Gaskin.

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