Bunches of grapes for earrings bunched up bedsheets twisted
clenched in a bunch of knuckles sore like haemorrhoids shameful
bunch of grapes (an awkward side effect of pregnancy) wobbly
globules, droplets from each lobe make blotches on her naked
breasts with nipples painted over is that modest, women, all
but cover faces if hers is covered it’s with arches arched eyes cheeky
arched brows arch expression lips like waking up from dreaming
of mosquitos finding hives all up the inside of the arms where skin
is mostly modestly chromatic. Except the hives which are like red
hands splayed and I like to think, if she could, she’d tuck in
the thumb and then some fingers and the remaining two, peeled free
of canvas, flaked around the edges, reflect exactly that, the challenge
in her eyes and what are we really saying I mean, what are we
to intuit from all these subtle gestures, I mean come on, like he cares.
Katherine Collins is a poet from Bristol. Her poems have appeared in The Rialto, Finished Creatures, Shearsman Magazine, Volume Poetry, Ink Sweat & Tears, and Anthropocene. She is in the final year of an MFA in poetry at the Manchester Writing School.