Joyce Merritt

She dreams in daylight
of fish sun-sparked red, blue and green,
lying in a man's hands
At night, I dream of the cook with a frying pan,
the smoke, the charred meat stuck to the metal.

She married the man who owned her life
as if it were a book he could throw in the fire
when he finished the last page.

I won't tell my stories to a man


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