By Shannon Curtin



Sitting down to dinner
your mouth bends toward the floor.
I cover my teeth when you rise.
You say nothing but the air feels stiff,
sharp.

Paper cuts of tiny rejections
litter my hands.
I tally each one on the wall
when you leave.
Thick black lines drawn,
I’m waiting.

You return from the kitchen
with salt.





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One Response to “‘Cut’”


  1. […] work by Shannon Curtin, a poet from Portsmouth, Virginia. Read two new poems by Curtin: “Cut” and “The […]


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