15 December, 2004Issue 4.1Creative WritingOriginal Poetry

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The Height

Michael Donkor

The day after you kissed me that
hard

I could feel my lip was split.

Against a full cushion of pink, a slither of brown
wrote its small scar.

And, whilst you are silent,
I can pass my tongue, spear-like,
press around its crinkled edges.

Hushed. “Sorry”. You say
the word, falling downcast,
as you remember
we both tasted the blood.