Tina Hyett


I must be polished
Smooth and persican
New words like new lands
Always somewhere else
Other to everyone
Their hands will rub me smooth
Their tongues abrade
I am afraid
The suddenness of perception
The smoothness of my eyes
Suavity of what is visible
Like in a mirror or a lake
Everyone is still
My arms are red
I pluck out each hair
Like an abortionist