I’m reading into a woman who crafts true
living in the centre of the palm of her hands,
and the way she forms a whirlwind of disaster
within me. At the moment she is surrounded,
consumed by beer bottles ganging up
for a swag of her ballerina untouch.
We know that true talent lies within the
alien breeze of her kiss, blowing bubbles
into the sky as if they’re a force to be
reckoned with, as if cherry aroma could
be any crueller than salmon fingertips,
tea rose nails tracing ink on bare skin.
Behind glass, I watch her knuckles light fires,
moving like a butterfly dancing on the sea.
Tell me, what does it mean to drown?
You said the sky looks better from beneath
the surface, dripping with a premature envy
in this museum of lungs, breathing in
memories of shoelace-ravelled finger bones.
She thinks about her mother, the dress she wore
on her wedding night, sizzled in moonlight heat
like a cocktail of petrol and flame, laughing
at the way she can burn so brightly.
She said: help me bring this dark landscape to life.
It makes me think of my love.
We began our journey, through crawling on our
knees and crying in our hands, getting lost in the
reality of everything we’re scared to be:
maze runners on the straight and narrow.
Near the end of the road, we couldn’t believe
how far we had come, with tired wings
flying and dying, and flying and dying,
and wilting and waiting, and flying again.
And flying; we were always flying.