“hotel,” new poetry by jesslyn delia smith


if i sift with my fingers
through fabrics, not
look away, be

lift and carry the 
weight of old skin
before it can rise 
from the floorboards

arrive in one piece
and then

grow a garden to nowhere at all

beneath a white flame
with my mother,
her mother,

dig for
we’ve buried
for years in the sand

what’s left is a body,
skin tethered to bones,

grown but from
at all:


small of
my back
just a space
for your hand
to announce
when it wants to be heard

these words by jesslyn delia smith were inspired by the art of Pasha Bumazhniy

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Word and Colour

words inspired by colour wordandcolour.com

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