Holy Spring


Holy Spring

There is that mouth

Looking at you

From across the table

You might look

He moves hands

He does not excuse himself

To your bathroom

You stay

On one side of the mirroring table

You might win

His coat

Hanging on your chair


The skin the snake left behind

The fur you stripped

The celebratory colour

Of a carcass flooded with Champagne

Milky coffee

You, victorious and great

His coat now,

small and liquid

You might still win this

You squeeze your hand

Until the skin colours the coffee cup

Poem by Maurits de Bruijn