Writers Institute

The Truth Comes Out

Margaret Graham

 

He opened me
like a can of olives,

pulled back
the jagged lid

and spilled my
contents across

the table. With a splash
and a small ha-ha

my lustrous cargo
burbled away

into corners
I could not

reach. He saw
everything.

I braced myself
for his mouth,

for the agonizing
act of consummation.

Instead
I felt his fingertips

venture quietly in,
as with a thimble,

and, once snug,
he proceeded

to play me
a waltz

on the
piano.

 




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