Notes on Cycles

by | Apr 5, 2022 | Issue Twenty Six, Poetry

on the train, streaks of sky, green, beyond this roaring, I’m an adult with hungry gums, today I stole a peach-pink bra, there is no milk to soothe, both our bellies swelled, a night or so ago, a dusty blue-grey couch, I am only looking for somewhere soft to rest my mouth, trying these words to see the sound, but it was only the rain shouldering the windows, you no longer wish, the ordeal of dying, what’s the point, confess, eye contact with a woman’s reflection, in another life, I might have formed a split-tailed fish, now standing with two legs upward, I spread with rough ridges, grains against fingertips, butter and jam, at the break of morning, my hands are un-webbed, my lungs expunged a flooding, to carry this language, I tie my own shoestrings in double-rabbit loops, nothing to do, cry, intimacy is being born, it’s easy to see how the world becomes beautiful my mother
standing with two legs upward
my mother
so I could carry
my limbs
my peach-pink gums
this language
being born
I see
how the world
becomes hungry
like wisps of green
beyond streaks
of shifting
on the train
the break of morning
like butter
and jam
it felt
a night
or so ago
I rested my mouth
somewhere soft
my mother’s chest
there is a fleetingness
of life
in this body
I’m an adult
with my hands un-webbed
searching for milk
to soothe the mechanic
of my limbs
in another life
I might have formed
a kind of split-tailed fish
or my mother

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