#097

I didn’t know your name. My breasts were yet to bloom. Summer laid shivering silver under the doormat. The code was dengue.

Conviction is our neighbor’s moth. Months of mango have long since desiccated on solar opals. Discussions drip greasy contraltos. Everyone reflects in degrees of chlorine now. Everyone but me. The night you had caught my eyes, I had caught fire.

Under the bed, I sat hunched with a biology book. I had failed maths. And menstruation, too.

I didn’t know your name. So I assigned you hieroglyphs. Late one noon, one of their anthers dehisced. I knew your pheromones by heart. I knew how they hammered me inside out. The underside of my flesh is still the color of liver-blood.

Your eyes would never travel south. Indifference had begun to sprout buds of rebellion. At 15, I was a battlefield.

I forget the season of gold mist. I forget the hour she baptised me. Tides swim awkwardly as I fantasise your mouth in mine. The air is metal. I taste radioactivity. You draw paisleys on a square inch of skin. You draw till seismology is a one word song.

Time will condense to a magnolia of ether-moon. My constellation has assumed your name.

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33 thoughts on “#097

  1. The underside of my flesh is still the color of liver-blood…. dang what an image… what images in general… always amazed at them….reflecting in degrees of chlorine is another fav

    • Summers in the tropic are often fraught with diseases. You can sniff chlorine all around, so much that it crops up in almost every conversation! Thanks for reading, Claudia 🙂
      And your Flickr stream is delightful!

  2. Powerful images & words; a very unique style that I respond to greatly; my first time reading your work, a cherry boy is a forest of rich fruits; love your lines /you draw paisleys on a square inch of skin/you draw until seismology is a one word song; this is my favorite poem out on the trail today; smiles.

  3. “You draw paisleys on a square inch of skin. You draw till seismology is a one word song.” – some intensity you build in here – absolutely loved it. Perhaps say – lived it, though your words.

  4. What sublime language, striking images! More importantly this poem moves in both sensuous and sensual ways, a constant opening, slowly at first, then hesitantly, exploring the inner self, critical, sensuous, with unstated similes, contrasts to chemicals, flower and body parts until the poem climaxes in an array of emotion and an eternal image of the moon as a magnolia blossom. Pure genius.

  5. Unreal, girl.

    “Conviction is our neighbor’s moth. Months of mango have long since desiccated on solar opals.”
    “I didn’t know your name. So I assigned you hieroglyphs.”
    And the line I misread as “The air is mental.”

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