by Joe Pickard
To suffer your stigmata
at the kitchen sink
is to know you.
What things could you divine
by the scraps of food
submerged in the dishwater?
You allow for no silences;
the radio whispers to you
and so do the tips of knives
on the tips of water-pruned fingers.
To know you is to suffer
your stigmata at the kitchen sink
fiercely scrubbing plates
until something gives
or breaks.
About the author:
Joe Pickard works as an editor for a magazine based in London. He has had writing published in Confluence, Eye Flash Poetry, Soft Cartel, and elsewhere. He is the founding editor of Pulp Poets Press, which is always looking for submissions.
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