Poetry The Filth issue
By Sandra Lim
My friend was born
with six fingers on each hand.
Do I need to tell you
that she is generous?
Whereas I could have bit
my tongue out each time my means
seemed to diminish.
My pride like a golden stag.
Some never feel loved or real, just
or thwarted. It is a slow fire in an autumn wood.
My soul does a little
flip in my chest, stands with its back
to the wood.
It wants to watch me struggle, I guess.
It’s leading me some distance away from
my uninteresting remorse,
and into the sweet stupor of absorption, as I fit
to what actually happens in my life.