between lettuce & lsd

By Scherezade Siobhan

the very first thing he ever said was – i want you
to inch out the splinters i have sharpened into ribs

within the tilde of my anatomy. i want you to help
me unweave this glass wool warp of my epiphanies

my sordid language of a childhood repeatedly
split by tines of forks murking any appetite to survive

i am warning you – i combust, easily – so teach me
how to thicken sand over this tinderbox of trauma

tell me when is it going to be happy again – the libran
birthstone of his eyes glazed by a vigil of seasonal flu

we have waited, haven’t we? – my voice is darkening
into a wet plum. & here is the secret grinning its gift

as the diary blinks its 77 items counted between kef &
kink. together, we torque & tease the edge of this fernweh

i have been another’s anais & i no longer believe
in trite mimicries of dust-glutted mythologies

it is sometimes hard to understand how
to hold something so soft & wild

to watch him redden the sky – a burning
match thrown right into the mouth of morning

where his skin is an arctic fox goldbricked
in the manger of a russian wintergray

is percussed sakura coupling
with the tokyo snow; handprints

hushed over a boudoir grand piano
the octaves jumping out like indus river

dolphins. if he says my body is beautiful
like a rubato of waves – fluting & crescendos

then i am nomadic as a shepherd on the seif
dunes of his stomach; gibbous & silvered

he is the only one who can bury me
within the lunar arias of his own

tinseled bones. the world is wind
chewing out the shrubs in the grunt

of natterjack toads. inside this room
my brain is no longer a black box

hunted from the flotsam of a migraine’s
crashed engine, no longer a solitary wing

protruding like a half-grown tumor
inside this room, we are amoebic in

our singularity. the heave of shapelessness,
blunted flanks – bourbon & muslin

the orgasm rising from me
like the white horse of butoh

his bite untangling these needle-tooth
nerves. handprints seeded against

the hotbed of hips. this is where he began,
this home sparkling its hunger inside

the christmas lights. he brought me here
to translate its possession; to make new

shadows from old ghosts. to unlaw the heart
and celebrate its tandem & cult; its leashless

way of existing between gone & given.


Image by davide ragusa



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