Poetry Corner: Nervosa

By Anna Maria Lineberger

How many times
have I worried away
the murmur of myself?

How many times
having I whittled down
the shadow of wanting?

How many times
have I moved like fog
across a craving floor?

The night, empty as I, is a confidence.

I clasp unruly shoulder in the right palm,
impertinent apple. 

I fantasize:
a bite from it, 
slow, deliberate chewing.

This life is meager.

My heart is tender
as a bitten bottom lip
I am tender
as flesh
so close
to the bone.

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