I am the surface in between –
only a reflection –
in the palm of my hand.
And under, underneath, underneath me
the mute and the blind
the unseen and the unsaid,
the white teeth bared,
pale dreams glistening unsheathed,
the taste of blood on the knife’s edge
between the tongue and the scream.
When it’s quiet, quiet like this,
a space in between,
sun cutting through,
bright eye peering down,
I can feel
the distant calls of birds,
sharp, like needles, touching my skin,
spider veins traced
on my shivering hide.
Copyright Maria Haskins 2015
This poem can be found in my book ‘Cuts & Collected Poems 1989 – 2015’.