matthew thirteen

by Mel George

The fingers
of my left hand
are calloused and numb.
Every guitar string
pressed against them
raises their defense;
each time
more self-protective,
nothing hurts anymore.

I can’t feel with them.

You tell me
my heart
grows the same
with every disappointment
pressed against it.
Come then
and strip it down,
it can hurt

and feel again.

Mel George is an underqualified psychologist and an overqualified administrator. She is not a poet. If you are, you can raise the standard of Pygmy Giant poetry by sending some in.

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