and he said that the sun was so low you could just catch the top sliver of it, like the white of an eye rolled back, like a white slice of pear. but it was beautiful and it caught the bellies of three wheeling seagulls, white-orange, still and studding the air. and when you breathed in, you got shivering, gulping, giddy sips of it — enough to make you dizzy, enough to make you sick with it, enough to out-buzz your alarming blood, enough to wash down the grainy pear, to reach up and catch a bird by the wing.

he said you could cut a slice of the building, it was so orange. and you could catch the juice in a cup and drink.

profile in warm light
the sun, set like jelly—
heat-shimmer wobble.

whining buckled ankle
and the snap of a nose—
sucker-punch kiss, or

a face in a neck,
biting out an artery—
pulled clean with a spray of blood.

god, tip this sideways
let me move my arm—
let me have a stronger bite.

now: marmalade orange.
there, sit there—
let us see this day end.

red-cheeked
i am trying to hate you

too close--you're
spitting mad, and teeth:

this is our orbit. we are
a balanced dagger. still,

a harsh breath is only
a hair's breadth

from that small word
you're scared of.

i will wait in wrath
with you, until it falls

soft from your snarled
lips, like wine.

i am not my father's daughter
but i do have his wrists
hollow-*****, bird-*****,
we both lose the handshake.

i did not get his eyes, but
we share the same skin:
midday we are twin moons --
cat eyes flashing white, the

pale, open underbelly of a shark.
i didn't get his chainmail of
freckles, or easy, open grin,
the diplomatic checkmate --

'we descend from the court
musician of a french king! we do,
it's true, i swear it's --'

i think even then, young and
hungry in a dark kitchen with
a runny tap, i knew it wasn't.
but, fine-***** fingers spelling

a one-step, two-step in the air;
his laugh could have been
the rough burst of a fiddle, voice
the dripping gold of a throne,

and the tiles the open prairie of a
ballroom floor.

i am not my father's daughter,
but we both spin to the un
deux trois of the groaning pipes,
pretending we are magic,
so maybe we are.

the apple of my town
is never ripe --

one day it's stone-hard,
a weapon, to make
the neighbour's nose
bleed like Red Delicious

the next it's rotten;
browning in the grass,
too-sweet and caving like
a kicked skull. still, for a day

the apple looks a gem --
waxy, mythic, the red twin:
worm-holed like the kiss
of a snake --   

the ultimatum of the year
nestled head-height.
now, this summer cider.
it is stronger than it looks.

i dreamt last night
of a house in a city, and
music, rising from it.

sardines on the sofa
he spoke in my ear, and
lowly: i was shame

incarnate. i wanted to
look at him closely, and
then i wanted to

punch that spark out
of my stomach.

which urge is more
animal, i can never tell.

i caught a break
held it gently in my hands
and examined its surface

it seemed unripe for me—
craters dusty, i was the clumsy
giant fumbling it to the floor.