Issue 7 • Fall 2003 • Poetry

Slip

Anya Miller

In the morning I wake to find fingertips red
like a cave painting.

Perhaps they were burrowing for comfort,
like the tongue in the mouth.

Have they learned the folds of the vulva
like a language?

They have been wringing pleasure
from a darkened body.
They have been slipping in the wetness
that fills me, unsavored.

I watch as the mask dissolves.

Anya Miller writes personal essays and poetry. Her work appears in Bitch: Feminist Response to Pop Culture, ScarletLetters.com, Moxie Magazine Online, SoapBoxGirls.com, Revolutionary Voices, Escaping the Yellow Wallpaper, and the forthcoming anthologies The Pagan's Muse and No Such Thing. She lives in San Francisco and is working towards an MFA in writing and literature at Bennington College.

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