Verisimilitude
The early sun comes callously across the pane,
laying on hands, one that holds this pointed
pen transfusing words into a page.
I've not yet begun to write, the hand exposed
exclaims No! The skin cannot already be
this slack, these blue and swollen riverveins
surely will recede — perhaps in spring? —
bring alabaster answers back
to the quivering question of my tenuous time.
But the light stares down denial, quickening this
stranger’s hand, this hand that’s held the pages of
my plot, already foreshadowing the dénouement.
Terri Watrous Berry's work has appeared over the past forty years in anthologies, journals, magazines and newspapers, receiving awards from venues as diverse as The Hemingway Festival and the Des Plaines/Park Ridge NOW Feminist Writers Competition.
This year her poetry has been included by Red Rose Thorns, Ghost Lite Lit, Culture Cult, Libretto, and Moss Piglet. She lives in Michigan with her husband, an accomplished luthier.
The early sun comes callously across the pane,
laying on hands, one that holds this pointed
pen transfusing words into a page.
I've not yet begun to write, the hand exposed
exclaims No! The skin cannot already be
this slack, these blue and swollen riverveins
surely will recede — perhaps in spring? —
bring alabaster answers back
to the quivering question of my tenuous time.
But the light stares down denial, quickening this
stranger’s hand, this hand that’s held the pages of
my plot, already foreshadowing the dénouement.
Terri Watrous Berry's work has appeared over the past forty years in anthologies, journals, magazines and newspapers, receiving awards from venues as diverse as The Hemingway Festival and the Des Plaines/Park Ridge NOW Feminist Writers Competition.
This year her poetry has been included by Red Rose Thorns, Ghost Lite Lit, Culture Cult, Libretto, and Moss Piglet. She lives in Michigan with her husband, an accomplished luthier.
