AS A SKINNY GIRL
My father showed his love
with Indian burns
on a dish-rag arm I pretend to pull away,
a downy chicken-foot arm wrung raw
to even the ulna.
To love him back I perched
dollish hands in a struggle grip,
scrunched all my weight for nothing.
His skin stanch against my tiny twists
while his love for me still stinging pink.
He finds fun this ineffectiveness
and makes me run away.
Eventually I skirt his reach,
learn the feebleness of trying.
I wait for many years
to match his earnest clench.
Wet and fine weather depend on him now.
Or so it seems to me and my feet.
I have such trouble with boots
that are never warm enough. He’d demand
my coat unzip, his suede grip
accord weightlessness to me,
with free, spreading toes and flaps of coat.
I’d look down on leaded clouds
begging to rain.
Daisies and hot grass sway above.
There is nothing
like the heat of grass
that is still so cool
I pull my coat closer.
She doesn’t need you now.
She has a mesh bag for razors
and facial scrubs,
a comforter set, and
hooks affixed with
Teeth, tongue, gums, gullet,
palate, lips, spit. Kiss.
Palms, arms, muscles, knuckles,
nails, wrists, pits. Hug.
Skin, kidneys, knees, nerves,
veins, brains, breath. Love.
A poet for the pleasure of it, Kim Suttell lives in New York City where she likes not having to drive. She writes poems in the subway. Some of her poems have found homes in Right Hand Pointing, The Cortland Review, Forth Magazine and other journals. They are compiled for you at page48.weebly.com.