Poetry - Issue 4
Residue From a Previous Life
You remember
those puckered prints she left
on wasted smokes,
her cigarette butts sizzling and dying
in your bathroom sink.
She sucked on orange rinds
to cover the smell,
the fruit-flesh catching
in her ochre-stained teeth.
You used to watch her
from the doorway,
her lipstick kissing her fingertips clean.
those puckered prints she left
on wasted smokes,
her cigarette butts sizzling and dying
in your bathroom sink.
She sucked on orange rinds
to cover the smell,
the fruit-flesh catching
in her ochre-stained teeth.
You used to watch her
from the doorway,
her lipstick kissing her fingertips clean.
Sometimes a Girl is a Broken Wheel
She is a splinter resting in the soft space
in the socket of the eye,
staring at herself
in the cracking plastic
of a train window
and trying not to blink.
Dream-cradled,
she is a sparrow, a chestnut, a football, a whisper.
One arm around her waist, the other
webbed in her hair.
She is awake and alive and spinning and
falling.
Her eyes are orbs, thumbtacks
pressed into the window-pane.
Sometimes a girl is a broken wheel.
in the socket of the eye,
staring at herself
in the cracking plastic
of a train window
and trying not to blink.
Dream-cradled,
she is a sparrow, a chestnut, a football, a whisper.
One arm around her waist, the other
webbed in her hair.
She is awake and alive and spinning and
falling.
Her eyes are orbs, thumbtacks
pressed into the window-pane.
Sometimes a girl is a broken wheel.
The Two of Us are Made of Matter
You chipped your front tooth
at the airport, on a metal handrail.
The missing chip is forever lost to you.
I press my fingers into the bruising indents
and trace the circle of saliva you left on my forearm,
throbbing and shining and throbbing.
Your bite remains. Pulsing,
growing in time with the seed
nesting in the pit of the stomach.
Words are dust in my mouth.
at the airport, on a metal handrail.
The missing chip is forever lost to you.
I press my fingers into the bruising indents
and trace the circle of saliva you left on my forearm,
throbbing and shining and throbbing.
Your bite remains. Pulsing,
growing in time with the seed
nesting in the pit of the stomach.
Words are dust in my mouth.