Ghost of a hand on my hip, everything you say is silent.
Yours is a haptic vernacular that makes me tremble
—the sense of endocrines welling beneath a sheet of want.
Well word choice is pretty amazing really, but I'm left confused as to what its all about. Is the ghost of a hand, real or not? Is this poem all about dread and fear or is it about something else? The subject matter is all a bit hazy for me, which isnt bad because thats probably how you write it to be.
You are no comfort when dread touches socket and tendon,
I'm a bit undecided about socket and tendon here, your trying to get over how all encompassing the dread is and the unusual lexical choice does that but it's a bit... odd. Yet again not something bad, probably how you intended it to read.
when the night is random and broken cells resound my name.
To bleed a brackish doggerel of whole-bodied grief,
was that meant to be a full stop? It seems like it leads on to the second line because that doesnt make much sense without it.
What broken cells are these? More for my enlightenment than anything else.
Very nice, my critique is more a question about whats going on than a criticism. I hope thats not annoying for you.
