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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 68

A Trembling in the Saucer

Although she put up with diamonds
and knew to linger
in the moment
when his lips approached,
she never really felt
that the hairs
splitting his knuckles into segments
deserved - even a one -
such attention
as she impulsively bestowed upon them.
Short fronds sprouting
like desert grass
could only draw
hungry herbivores.
And she had always loved
the tear of meat from bone
the cracklings along
the edge of her steak.

What stake then
could she put
on this fond beast
softening his claws
upon the café counter,
leaning near
so gradually
that the gem's glint
caught one drop
as her cup spilled
slightly into its dish
and she thought,
"what a drip!"

  Sarah Wyman