Work the Dishes by Poppy Mosse

Wet edged sleeves

sudded, soaked and wrinkling fingers,

work the dishes.

A word on the radio, slips into my ear.

I am caught,

my mind

riding its way through thought.

Time is lost

a sense of something is brought back.

I ache

a place in me is provoked

I brake

a space is made.

I try to push back this thought.

But it's shards,

sharpened by my galloping mind

spike my insides.

hurt seeps

pain keeps

minds    seek

Wet edged sleeves

sudded, soaked and wrinkling fingers

work the dishes.

A word, on the radio, slips into my ear