Foreign fingers
It is only by the touch of
foreign fingers
The tickles.
shiny, brilliant
little spasms of clarity.
and confusion
joined in smooth
marvel.
That I can become my own
again
and dispose of your fingers.
But then, again.
the tickles.
foreign fingers
The tickles.
shiny, brilliant
little spasms of clarity.
and confusion
joined in smooth
marvel.
That I can become my own
again
and dispose of your fingers.
But then, again.
the tickles.
Mary Ocher was born in Moscow, in 1986, grew up in Tel Aviv, is now living in Berlin. Has poetry published in UK Poetry Live, Autumn Leaves, Poetry SZ, Unlikely Stories, The Delinquent and East Westerly Review.
