Beer Kisses

from 'Woman'

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.