Lisa Young Kutsukake
Finally, something humiliating.
Below the cut steel stare of fluorescents
Lit in the commotion of the present:
I am a cobweb that caught an aging
Fingernail in the dining room cupboard,
Bland paint chip fallen off the bed’s frail leg,
Iron-stained panty clung to a clothes peg.
Neglect—to disavow, turn from, abhor.
Stubbornly posed before men’s scrutiny,
Our palimpsest-inked pages glow, one makes
Another. “Tabula rasa. The lot.”
Words fail to write actions; shrewd entropy
Blots Reason, favours twittering Rapture—
Who claims to say who is real and who’s not?