Fall 2008

Table of Contents - Vol. IV, No. 3


Poetry    Translations    Fiction    Essays   

Witt Wittmann


His Hand

his hand opens the jar
that I have
whacked with a knife
banged on the counter
pried with the fork's tines
run under hot water
till I can't hold it

so easy for him

his grip could crush
my throat in an instant


it cradles my breast
till I open up



© Witt Wittmann



Poetry    Translations    Fiction    Essays   

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