Song for A7

I’m remembering a time before; all I saw
was your face reflected through optic lines
sitting in your kitchen, spilling stories

mothers and sons; the colours of your
phrenology, loving their way from your voice
to deeply beneath my tongue. It stays.

How did we go from that to where; you
humming a way around my homes, a
voice in my kitchen, bleeding my sheets?

About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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