By Maya Berardi
my fingerprint is a stain. I’m leaving
little ink rivers all over. Your skin
will snag if I touch it. That’s what
your last letter said, left open
because I can’t find true words
to write back. I don’t want that job.
The song playing says what I don’t
admit. Knots tighten in the wooden table
and in my fingers under the table
and everything is sorry.
The road, for looping us back
into one another. The days,
for their tired hold. And me,
mostly, for crashing your love
like a car.
Maya Berardi is a Pittsburgh, PA native. She is the Senior Editor of 'fragments' literary magazine; has been published in Jenny Magazine, The Apprentice Writer, and Large Print; and is the recipient of top poetry prizes from Gannon University, Rider University, Penn State Behrend, and the Scholastic Writing Awards.