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This week, a poem by Heather Bartlett.
There you were:
a sliver in the pink of my palm
you were the frayed wood
springing from the table you were
the wrinkled skin inside my fist
you followed me
up the metal stairs &
into the warm kitchen you
lit the burner & boiled the water
you were the steam &
my breath on the cold pane
turning to ice on the other side
of thick glass you broke
through & sat on my chest
as I sang slowly shivering &
barefoot on the cold floor you were
the bloody hole when I pulled
the sliver out.
HEATHER BARTLETT holds an MFA in poetry from Hunter College. Her recent work can be found in Carolina Quarterly, the Los Angeles Review, Ninth Letter, the Rise Up Review, and other journals. She is a lecturer in English at the State University of New York at Cortland, and she lives, writes, and grades papers in upstate NY.