Northwords Now Issue 39

The FREE literary magazine of the North


by Karen Hodgson Price

In this photo
my eyes dissemble
the lived moment.
Our words die on my lids.
Reveals little but

a prickly always,
a barbed and. No smell
of wood-smoked wool
or poached-pear bake
on tongue. No votive touch.

It does not say I looked
everywhere but your face
that day. Everywhere. It omits
utterly to mention
last chances.