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JulyWe thought that we could let sunshine caress bare thighs, that lamb fleece meant no more than its marshmallowy softness, that rivers would always flow in their syrupy way.July
Days blazed like burnt trousers. Old clothes torn, thrown to the ends of our worlds. Earth smelled new in hands. Once rain, we now smelled deserts, endless gasps of sand waiting.
Skin toasted, almondlike stenches now shimmered from us. Our crusts had hardened; now cast off, sickly-sweet.
by ~prick-me-dainty
A room, and a womanIA room, and a woman
You were once bare as roads on a summer afternoon, your body a canvas colour might (but never did) splotch on. If we spilled coffee on you tomorrow it would be gone; you would glitter obscenely again.
II
Now cluttered as salad you wilt, drenched in us. We whiff saplings of sour. Still we play on your floors, nooks, folds.
III
Green has sifted through walls that once were yours. We scrape it off; it grows, like an itch.
We watch, our feet, too sinking in marsh.
by ~prick-me-dainty
Where I grew upWhere I grew upWhere I grew up
Rice hums in its secret, steel world in the afternoons: Amma, waiting, glaze finish of the school pond for company. We wash out as if from mosaic: navy, red, white - me into her lunch-warmth.
You would have liked the look of me. Braids taut as clothesline, oil carving my face.
We might have run up to the attic, you and I: found, hidden amidst ashy anthologies, the leaky fugue you always wanted.
by ~prick-me-dainty
As I walk to your houseRaindrops brown cement. I smell you - in mud, in grey of puddles, in the vanilla of my shirt.As I walk to your house
Now they are little eggs smashing themselves at me. I do not mind the goo, hurrying on.
Your apartment an oven, clicking open to me. Inside, you - a murmur of uncertain thunder, a sky-giant.
by ~prick-me-dainty
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“Now me lay down to sleep.
Mow da zeebas down like sheep.
Give dem to me nice and dead.
Me no happy ‘til me fed.”
-Bedtime prayer of crocs, Pearls Before Swine
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