By | 1 November 2015

Dismantling your form as you stand in the wake of white laminate,
everything takes its place as arable desire crunches under my downy boots.
I say ‘hello’ like an apology – not wanting to be a duchess of regret
(yes, I am familiar with the dogged predictability of losing)
so I look to the hem of your lips and move up to settle
on the southern tip of your nose;
soft patches of confessional skin a tourniquet to any rind of hope.
red ink, black ink, blue ink
I wager that there is grace in shutting up.

On my chart of the east, clouds chafe the sky,
my piano moaning like a bird on its last flight.
My body rushes; keening at you like you’re a finish line,
and as I usurp ribbons of catastrophe the dog pack has pinned to my chest,
I see you as a remission, where you become one long fortnightly saudade.

Gales of laughter rip through us as we fox away time.
With my foot in the door, I bury myself in busy snatches of air
where you tease me over the lure of peeling foil
before I scatter shards of pills under my tongue
but not before drawing your face into the bough of my hands;
my fingers trumpeting urgency.

I do not trust myself to hear the lilt in your voice
or to feel your hands under my caul,
for there are sounds that tumble out of my mouth
like small hymns that run in time with your easy slouch
best I learn how to pray

Meet me at the river where water
slips around our shadows like outposts of hope.
Stuck in the gullet of splitting winter winds
we are already a dirge of soupy stares and epistolary flesh
upon which I shall starve my curdling belly;
the biggest surprise being that you even remembered my name.

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