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Susan Wilson

Jarring


I empty the jar of putrid black slime

it will always fill up, always fill up

she dips her hand in, puts it onto my face

she’s working it in, into her view


her lies, like graffiti, are smeared on my wall

if nobody reads, she’ll call in the dogs

they sniff and they lick, they snarl and they drool

my neighbours, her friends, my friends, no more


between her fingers the grease is still fresh

my kindness a blindness to the muck on my wall

a lifetime of hands dipping into the jar

how they hate to see so clean a truth