The Icelandic Canadian - 01.10.2002, Side 40

82
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Vol. 57 #2
Poetry
by Kirsten Brooks
Act Three, Scene Four
Your Final Words
SPIT out over the Lip of your Cup
betrayed
Even the Smallest of Silences inside me
so that
Morning Broke
In short Laboured Breaths
over the skin of my hand
and
You Watched
in
Fascination
as
My Fingers
Rolled off the lid of the teapot
Steam Hanging
in beads off my heart.