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Literature Text
April 17th, 2016
It's warm out, so
I want berries.
What a simple,
straightforward desire.
The grit of raspberry
seeds and a tall
leaky glass of icewater.
April 18th, 2016
At the end, I did not
want to hurt you, but
I didn't much care
if you were.
My image of you
was some oiled gleaming
pig. You were lovely.
Well-muscled, strong teeth,
still a pig.
April 19th, 2016
While attempting to be enamored,
that place, that language
became repugnant.
It was a final disappointment
I inflicted upon myself,
a penitent's lash.
Years later, I dream
a few words still:
harb al-hub,
hub al-harb
which means nothing
to someone like me.
April 20th, 2016
Several towns over,
a fitful shiver of
lightning. The wind and trees
tell secrets in harmony.
Like a brand new commandment
brought down from Sinai
the rain's leading edge
pronounces itself.
It's warm out, so
I want berries.
What a simple,
straightforward desire.
The grit of raspberry
seeds and a tall
leaky glass of icewater.
April 18th, 2016
At the end, I did not
want to hurt you, but
I didn't much care
if you were.
My image of you
was some oiled gleaming
pig. You were lovely.
Well-muscled, strong teeth,
still a pig.
April 19th, 2016
While attempting to be enamored,
that place, that language
became repugnant.
It was a final disappointment
I inflicted upon myself,
a penitent's lash.
Years later, I dream
a few words still:
harb al-hub,
hub al-harb
which means nothing
to someone like me.
April 20th, 2016
Several towns over,
a fitful shiver of
lightning. The wind and trees
tell secrets in harmony.
Like a brand new commandment
brought down from Sinai
the rain's leading edge
pronounces itself.
Literature
consecrate
authenticity an arsenic
in morning coffee, in the smiles
pressed like ironed laundry,
because I feel like one wrong breath,
one wrong kiss between glossed lips and soft jaws
and I will be nailed to a cross
deception a shame rising like steam,
where teeth grind against each other
like clockwork gears, tick tick ticking
while the tongue kisses the roof of its cathedral
like a prayer to gods yet to be named
because her face is a mosaic window
shining the sin out of love
Literature
tell.tale
she told me her favourite word one Tuesday when the sun fell sharp like lemon slices across wet tarmac and constellations of cigarette stubs, I drank it in – all these useless facts as if she would test me, hand me a paper with a series of questions: her favourite word, the song set as her alarm, whether she prefers seafoam or duck egg blue a perfectionist, I would get every answer right, be rewarded with those teeth clicking into a smile like champagne glasses shattering in an over-enthusiastic toast ask me whether she loved me and I would falter, but her favourite word was surreptitious and that’s exactly how I felt, holding my heart tucked in my sleeves and praying she would notice.
Literature
sandpapered
even after I polished myself again
and again I still
splinter. by now I am flatter than I ever
planned, but I guess that's not enough
(the last time someone stepped on me they
still bled. they told me that saying
sorry wasn't going to fix the wound so I
swallowed it back, ran sandpaper through again because
what else could I do?
and now I'm not sure if I'll ever stand up again)
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© 2016 - 2024 saartha
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