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,

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.


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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