“I Watch Her Eat” Nesta Nordskov – Third Place She is not the apple in the tree, forbidden to me as sin is to a saint. Or a deviant I bring home on holidays to frighten my mother, scrying over turkey bones: find my daughter, bring her back to me. My hips a harbinger of wasted potential and snide words passed over like bread and butter, they gorge themselves on judgment. Mother cease your prayers for me, I do not need saving from her. She is the red-crested sun breaking through the windowpane, calloused fingertips trading secrets with my spine at the dinner table, a subtle luxury. A hushed murmur between sips of sour wine, she is the seamstress of their gazes embroidered to the breast of her cardigan padded with my head, resting.
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Vortex
Poetry
