Where you took me

I had never cut my fingernails; would only retouch
occasional casualties – cracks on thumbs, hooks on
index fingers, too long witch-like pinkies. Not once
did I sit down with a pair of tiny curved scissors
to trim down all ten. But I live here now, inside

your outside dream. My gloves can’t compete
with cupped hands shovelling fresh molehills
into planting holes and biodegradable pots.
No nail brush can handle the wet earth
hugging and sucking ripe parsnips.

At night I pull you on top
as usual, I run
my hands down your back
– this time you kiss my neck



Cecile Bol lives in the north of the Netherlands. She is the leader of a local English poetry stanza. Her work has appeared in several magazines and anthologies. More onΒ www.cecilebol.nl.