it began and ended in spring
it’s september, and there is a
typically-desperate prisoner trapped
inside my rib-cage, scraping
at my bones with a little spoon,
demanding to be freed.
the weather is warmer now,
like rough hands placed gently over my eyes,
like a promise fed by flowers and something made of sugar.
i am lying in a field somewhere where the grass is tall,
tall enough to hide the sins that are latched
to my ankles and my wrists.
maybe the sun will pity me,
maybe he’ll send me a friend
and then we’ll sit together
beneath a peach tree. i’ll split a fruit
and give them the bigger half—
it’ll feel grand, like an act of worship.
i am as brave as i can be on a thursday afternoon
but between each tick of the clock, in the
silent space when time stands still,
i am sick;
waiting for soft fingers to pry away my dizzy spell
and find the child buried underneath,
kiss her forehead and
sing her songs like her grandmother used to
about flyaway hats and pretty girls
going to the market;
maybe then, she’ll learn to let go.
the new light breaks like a warm yolk, soft
and begging to be broken again
and again by your eyes;
hot air rises, hot air rises, and so do we
from the humid dregs of forethought and aftertaste,
but on your birthday, you still appear in my dreams—
peeling mandarins and tearing stitches.
you ruin my favourite dress
and you feed me my favourite fruit and
it breaks again,
becomes unbroken.