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  25m ju
Evan Stephens
Your name is scrawled
in the sun this morning,
& the lilies are bursting
from their green fists -
new shadows croon
from bedsheet tents,
& tiny kites of frost
play telephone lines
under teacup cloud:
the world is your empire,
even the white lawn
flaming with winter
under the death's head
evergreen is yours now.
My suitcase eyes
will make delivery
before coffee is served.
ju 1h
I paint nails in a sin shade. nourish skin touched, touched, touched - cloud routine in amber and curve. leave smooth the fold where hid distrust. and I won’t stop, stop, stop - because the fold-promise made, the routine-perfume-sin - the nails, curves, skin - O Love - are not yours, yours, yours - they are mine.
  1d ju
Evan Stephens
Join me beneath
an eight percent moon
that shook itself free
from Irish holly
on its way to
bearded stone.
Agent of itself,
it little cares what
we'll do here,
in this rose garden
of shadow flighting.
Join me in the sliver
of tinnish light
that wanes into the berries,
& shove your breath
into mine with clear intent.
We wear dresses of silence.
The mottling dark
clenches your hair.
A faceless statue
chaperones no one.
  2d ju
Tiger Striped
The space between
my stomach and happy is
red ugly hot.
I feel my heart beat there,
thumping and stabbing
that is why I press my lips together
at the dinner table
and don't touch my food.
ju 3d
~

As I tidy, I organise time in little pill-pockets, sweep debris from sills and tables. I dice their cravings and fancies into some sort of meal, and wash nine hours of lines trod and toed from my clothes, ready for morning.  

These things make me feel needed, and I resent them as though they are chains. Do you draw me as selfish?

~

As I rest, I see my oldest cup with my keys; my coat and cleaned-boots left by the radiator gathering heat, and I wrap myself in a patchwork of dreams. I catch a wink - my favourite colours - beaded from the heartbreak-dark of a room.

These things make me feel loved, and I breathe them as though they are air.
Do you draw me as ungrateful?


~

As I watch, I turn my reflection this way, that way, pile ink-hair on her crown. I imagine my burgundy dress fall over her hips to the floor -  reveal to my mind the vanity of sheer-stockings and dark eyelash-lace on porcelain skin.    

These things make me feel beautiful, and I miss them as though they are dead.
Do you draw me as shallow?


~
ju 4d
in the bedroom, on the landing, windows are open
every time over confinement.

in the bathroom, breeze taps a pull-cord, slides opinion
between voodoo and idle genies stored in gem-jars.

night’s stare is cold. thorough.
I wonder what he sees. how he draws me.

reflection is kind - throws time to shadow.
licks clean my memories - labours won and lost.

I watch her- my left-handed explorer of self -
her small o of silence is mirrored,

and all the things I want to tell her - die on my tongue.
I return to a warm embrace of moments ago.
ju 4d
Outside, dark exists in vast swathes. Inside, lamps tell various truths from different angles: To my left is a life measured in chapters, to my right one measured in pills. I look to the window for answers - Instead all I see is an expanse of inky-black glass and rain shattered ghosts.
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