Touched Out

Little hands like mice
run up and down the clock,
pat-a-cake pendulum breasts,
broken hourglass hips—
sand’s run out but

they keep turning me over
like a pebble worn smooth
by fingers reaching
in a pocket close and dark.

I am a woman perched on the edge

of her couch,
an asteroid belt of dirty laundry
books, toys
and children
who know nothing of relent,
hurtling.

Quietly I
implode,
a scatter of sand sifting
through chubby fingers,
and still they keep turning
and
turning
me
over.

back to issue

Tara Borin lives in London, Ontario, where she writes poems and wrangles three kids. Her interests include sneaking chocolate and showering alone. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Uppagus, Rat's Ass Review and Mused Literary Review. You can find her online at taraborin.blogspot.com.