Two poems by Pippa Little
Self-Portrait as a Last Meal Me in this found world. Mother and father, horned, pronged, point due north, guards of white meat on a grey plate. Lone glass, all mouth is not my sister. Here murderers wait to eat the clot-dark looming thing I am with its one eye that hides in plain sight, stares back at itself. Inventory of Things I Know … Continue reading Two poems by Pippa Little