Detail, missed

by

Britta Benson

I pick at the bud,

knowing I’ll kill.

Peel, peel, peel

what’s not ready.

Tight, upright,

waiting for suns

that will not come,

you sit. Stubborn.

I nip at your core,

splice your heart,

in order to understand

the anatomy of grief.

You don’t budge.

Through sediment,

settlements of souls,

I investigate, operate.


Cut by cut,

I slice, dissect,

open sesame, rip

skin full of scabs.

You allow me in.

I peel, peel, peel.

Bring autumn justice.

Strip layer upon layer.

I shred you into strings,

theories of everythings.

You smile, find breath.

Your secret safe from me.

Britta Benson is a German writer, circus performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She publishes her latest musings and stories on ‘Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland’ every day and has featured in online and print publications. She also teaches Gaelic, runs a creative writing group, The Procrastinators, loves to walk up and down the Scottish countryside and drinks far too much tea.





Britta Benson
Britta Benson
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