or promises

there’s a gap in the curtains
through which the light slips through

; quietly
without a sound
no promises;

slither, slides across the sheets
across this divide cleaves,
breathing with my skin,

stretched across my naked breast
angels of dust entreat
laying fine as crust,

; quietly
embed a sound
in promises;

reliquaries of trust
touch as frail as echo flies,
secret messages,

; quietly
don’t make a sound
or promises.

© Emma Calder

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