Stiletto Scars

Met my good friend, Pooja for dinner the other day and she passed me her 1st published book of poems, with the interesting title: Stiletto Scars.


The book is divided into chapters, entitled ‘Homes’, ‘Heart, ‘Head’, ‘Heels and Hips’ and ‘Hurt and Hope’. Here is one of my favourite poems of hers (put up with permission =)


There is the kind of safety that one gets from

A seven-year-old fuzzy t-shirt that has travelled

from dancefloor to sleepwear.

The kind of comfort you feel

at the end of some poems or novels,

when you know someone else

feels things you thought

would place you in an asylum.

And sometimes, even amidst the

purpose of the familiar everyday


there are small swelling butterflies in my stomach,

There are inside jokes and the smell of him

in my hair, and from practice, I instinctively

know exactly how far to open my palm

to grasp his hand so my fingers curl into

the gaps between his.

There is music. No longer a heavy percussion

beat, but mood melodies that go on

and on without hindering conversation.

Is this love then?

Is this all

I must expect

for the                                 rest

of my life?


~ by irwin on January 16, 2009.

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