Spindle, Lathe
       

Thirst rose in her from a sitting position.
There was would-this and would-that.

There was the man. Not as she thought.
Was the lick. Was the try. When she saw

the sky was broken. When locked her
simple door. Her tongue put out like

so little fire. The what-was-left. Spindle,
lathe. Latch. The heart like two barn doors.

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Copyright © 2016 Renée Ashley All rights reserved
from The View from the Body
Black Lawrence Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission