a poem by Lenea Grace

Do not be fooled by this, his soft eyes,
his beard, hirsute with auburn tufts
that betray darker locks, limbs.
His shoulders, warm with laughter,
strong with weights: dead and alive,
the raw exercise of memory.
His hands do not give away his profession,
but lend themselves to calloused dignity,
ink and algae.
Do not touch them.

He is so sharp.
He is so sharp, ladies, and he will cut you with his flesh.

Lenea Grace is a Canadian writer living in New York. Her work has been published in Grain, EVENT, ditch, and Gulper Eel. She's inspired by rock and roll, Soviet grandmasters, rivers, Townes Van Zandt, and trying to find the balance between the heartbreaking and the hilarious.

Visit her website at http://leneagrace.blogspot.com.