Face the shame of our dances— nothing knocks like hidden failure. I am a womb covered in dust. Words are silently standing over this abyss. “We have been waiting,” they shout, seemingly defiant. But the light keeps my idiot mask from breaking open. Who am I to judge the simple foot? It touches and travels ‘cross the silky grandeur of your leg. I could not ask you on a date. So the depths guard you, silent, shrouded— there is no other.
The Pine Cone Review 