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Jul 2023
Idling in a wedding gown,
white on white skin reflecting in its paleness
the filth of what has been
and what is to be.
Slips of fabric tease hard lines of shoulder,
a wispy, hyaline veil cascades in reverence
about honeyed curls
and through the curtain, his lashes flutter
a boyish acquiesce.

Fruit trees sprout on the petticoats of the billabong:
desert figs and passionfruit
and currants thick with black flesh
who peel themselves back
to tumble into his wide-open mouth.

Tulle and silk bunch around his knees
soaking in juices from the feast.
Eyelids lower over two blissed out
messy half-moons,
while drool or puke or juice
drivel down his chin
in uneven, marbled strings.
[01-2020]
Written by
Shayla V
91
 
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