Slavia

My stomach burns
With the quaking tide,
When you play with my toes,
When you tickle my pride.

Take me away
To your far away land,
Buried like dust
In the prints of your hand,

Where your smile doesn’t crack,
And fade,
Before the hours
Draw into days.

I lay in the bed
Of a perfect stranger.
I played with his words,
Mimicking danger,

And he begged me to tell him
My endless verses,
Beneath the morning’s
Sleepless curses.

His fingers played
With the curve of my side.
I told him of
The day I died ―

A secret I guarded
So closely from you.
I told him the truth.
I told no one I knew.

Written by Anna Williams at Age 17
Washington, D.C.

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About Anna

Anna Vera Williams is a poet, a photographer, a blogger, and a webmaster. She is the webmaster of Poems, Poets, & Poetry, which provides poetry resources and allows other poets to showcase their work. Her photographs can be found at Anna Vera's Photography, and her books and photos can be purchased at Lulu.com.

View all posts by Anna

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