Fall 2008
Table of Contents - Vol. IV, No. 3
Poetry Translations Fiction Essays
Witt Wittmann
his hand opens the jar
that I have
whacked with a knife
banged on the counter
pried with the fork's tines
run under hot water
till I can't hold it
so easy for him
his grip could crush
my throat in an instant
yet
it cradles my breast
till I open up
easy
© Witt Wittmann