I’m Not Sure I Can Ever Have Enough
That if you lifted the plate to offer me
More, I would waft my hand, little finger towards
You. Take it away. Take it all away. Not
Because these riches are richer than I think
I should be, than I think prop up a doll-version
Of myself, less hungry, less wantful.
Not because I want, still, but less than I wanted.
But because I have luxuriated and
I am full. That is what I want, when I go.
Full of coffee soaked cantuccini you brought me
Home from Italy. Arms held full above my head,
Clothes flushed by sweat, lungs fat with a voice I could
Never find in daylight. Limbs aglow, wrung out,
Fingertips tingling from water that made me
Gasp as I eased myself so gradually into
It. But most of all, my hand full of yours.
How can I have enough of my hand full of yours.
Molly Stock-Duerdoth is a writer and researcher from Brighton, UK. Professionally and creatively, she is interested in how we make meaning from each other. Her work has appeared LitBreak and she co-edits the zine Atonal.