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By Marie Cloutier

Copyright ©2024

Your fingers weren't ash

the night they were inside me.

You shocked the bloom from my legs

when I heard your slang words for pussy.


Your fingers weren't ash

bobbling the room key in the rain,

our wet shoes long forgotten

in echoed wordless conversation.


Your fingers are now ash

and yet they grip me once again,

strum me back to the memory

of that one and only day.


About Marie Cloutier:

Marie Cloutier writes poetry and creative nonfiction just outside New York City. She is working on a memoir and is an avid quilter and beginner piano student. Her work has appeared in Haiku Universe, edrosethorns and Scribe micro fiction.  Her website is


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