THE POEMS
You fell asleep on the tiles,
a translucent peacock loomed,
your sex opened and let out
a very blue, very high flame.
You wore a split veil, that morning.
Silent, nailed to her chair, the seated woman writes. She cracks. The poems fidget, slip their fingers: they seek to enter. Perched on her shoulder, the poems whisper in her ear. She captures their messages: "I love the sacred contortions you offer me." The poems protest: "You're squeezing us too hard: careful, pet."
More than descriptors, the words behave as commands or moves in a game-and the voice of the seated woman rises to play.
Gör som tusentals andra bokälskare
Prenumerera på vårt nyhetsbrev för att få fantastiska erbjudanden och inspiration för din nästa läsning.
Genom att registrera dig accepterar du vår personuppgiftspolicy.Du kan alltid välja att avsluta prenumerationen.
