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by Joe Pickard

To suffer your stigmata

at the kitchen sink

is to know you.

What things could you divine

by the scraps of food

submerged in the dishwater?

You allow for no silences;

the radio whispers to you

and so do the tips of knives

on the tips of water-pruned fingers.

To know you is to suffer

your stigmata at the kitchen sink

fiercely scrubbing plates

until something gives

or breaks.


About the author:

Joe Pickard works as an editor for a magazine based in London. He has had writing published in Confluence, Eye Flash Poetry, Soft Cartel, and elsewhere. He is the founding editor of Pulp Poets Press, which is always looking for submissions.


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