Clutched to the ***** of my mama,
Rocked lightly to sleep — it’ll all be over soon, this is for the best —
We hum soft hymns, link hands and dutifully maintain
Distance from the other families. One metre
Between our island paradises, one metre
From Together. At sundown, we cross
Our legs and curl up around the fire,
Listening to the good word of our prophet.
His robes reflect the glare of the lights,
Enveloping him in a soft, radiant glow.
His kind smile caresses me gently as he whispers
Of safety, precaution. It’s for the best.
We settle into routine, the comforting monotony of sameness.
We awaken, canaries in cages, preening ourselves carefully.
We stir lightly, attending to our chores within the confines of these blank walls.
We
See as the squirrel stumbles down the tree, scratching insistently
At the knot between two branches. Rusted fur glistens in the sunlight,
Warm and alive, almost close enough to hear the pattering of her tiny heart
Trapped within her matchstick ribcage. The salivating dog lumbers after it,
Snapping and frothing at the mouth, eyes bloodshot, filled with hunger.
His blackened lip curls back in a snarl, matching every move she makes,
Bark torn up beneath his cruel claws.
A leaf falls and I flutter with it,
Plummeting down to the floor beside the beast.
Clamping his mouth shut, I release a shuddering sob. He whines,
Suddenly a child reaching for a ****** to nuzzle, an alarm screaming for
Attention.
I feel him settle behind me, his tender warmth replaced by cold anger.
Our leader, whom I love dearly.
His hands pin down my wrists, wiry meat on his bones,
Don’t leave. Don’t leave. I kick and I scream,
The cries tearing out of my throat chased by hoarse pleas,
My gown feeble and sheer beneath the blades of his fingers.
Sliced open, I’m butchered by him, each sliver of flesh separated cleanly from
The bone. Laid out on a table for all to see, the audience
Watching with rapt attention as he skins my prone body.
Sweet strips of muscle are passed around the circle.
I wear my dress like a suit of armour, but everyone sees
It for the pitiful bandage it is.
That night, mother draws the curtains with one fell swoop.
The canary is shrieking now.
May 12, 2020
May 12, 2020 at 11:37 AM UTC
A cyclone of storks ripples above,
Whirling dervish, a mass blinking
White and white and black and white.
Then, teardrops pour down from above
Us, a
Shower of gifts to settle upon our right shoulders.
I open my mouth, flex the pink muscle of tongue,
**** the milk from the mother's ****
Begin to float above the ground —
Just a little.
Pimpled skin breaks harshly,
Cranberry juice pouring down my collarbones,
Feathers blooming along my back with the
Insistence of a petulant child. Growing
Into my form, filling out the frame of
Marabou born generations before me.
Up to the clouds, a fire beneath me,
I ascend in a flurry of plumage, my legs
Withered and spindly - I am no longer of the earth
Now - once, twice, thrice I beat my wings,
Settling on the edge of the world for a mere moment and
Gone.
My lungs gasp, I shudder out a last giggle before
Space
Swallows me whole.
I run my fingers down the cartilage ribs
Of the oseophagus, a xylophone of softbone spears.
Tumbling, somersaulting, skirt billowing around my ears,
Wingtips scoring a trail in the warm, wet walls.
A resounding splash echoes through the chamber as I
dive into the ocean. It feels limitless—
I feel limitless, water dripping off my oil-slick feathers,
Slithering lindwurms curling between my toes.
I sip primordial soup.
And so goes the story, my child, of the sun-kissed stork.
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 12:38 AM UTC
The olives are black and ripe.
Black beads scrutinise me, smiling
With a bitter aftertaste that I know I won’t like,
But my dad loves.
Four olives, then three, then two,
And little fingers reach out for the plucked fruit.
Yellowy syrup soaks into fluffy clouds of ciabatta
Like the warmth of the sun seeping into tiny cracks in the road;
I remember the story of Athena’s olive tree and
I think I should call her Minerva because I’m in Italy.
Two identities for the same person.
I find that strange.
Picking the thinly sliced fruit from my food,
I grimace at the pattern of black spots on my plate.
The two colours mix in my vision and I know
It is ugly.
The sea glimmers just beyond my reach and the
Filtered beams of sunlight make me yellow.
**** sharp flavours pinch my tongue.
Thin arms suffocated by pustules of inky blackness cover my vision;
My father stands beside me, taking photos,
Although I’m not sure what he’s commemorating.
I see a group of Korean tourists.
They don’t recognise me.
I spit out the sour bead.
Apr 2, 2020
Apr 2, 2020 at 4:53 AM UTC