i am not made of stone

these broken fingers are not shovels

nor nails

or tiny hammers

they are creamy

fruit figs

pulling back words

from the brink

foil from the neck

of cold, brown beer bottles

denim down the hips

over white flesh wounds.

this black, here

under my nails

this is not

the meat

the marrow

its just the soil

and the stain

of day labour.

the hands that have become

wranglers of rock weight were once

wrestlers of thigh

and cigarette romancers.

softer surfaces do slower

but, similiar work

on eroding

my soul.


words: J. Fisher, Canada (about & more)
image: Carrie Crow, New York (baron & the crow)


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BluePrintReview - issue 17 - Bodyscapes