POEM: Nothing

Nothing

What use is anger—

it’s burning my hands,

it’s tools without handles,

smoke

turning desire blind.

What a thing

to place in my lap.

What a life—

flinging off the crown,

gold ringing to the floor.

What a way to dissolve—

to relinquish my crown

with both hands open.

That person:

Not a demon.

Not an angel.

A hollow bone.

A frame without its fill.

Nothing.

Marni Fraser

0505.2026

Photo Marni Fraser 2026