The Winter of My Discontent
Callousness lingers on my thigh. Clammy scales
on white meat. Stickiness blows down the tunnel
of an ear, pricked to sugar sweet words, oozing
with honey, wrapped in golden arsenic.
Bars of metal shoot through the blackness
of December. Still you do not hold me.
Ribbons of moisture hit the earth,
hard. Your hands rest on bony knees.
Light snuck through flimsy cotton,
I slip out of Hades cave. Breakfast was
a single pomegranate seed, crystallized
blood. I am never getting out.
Footsteps on twelve biscuit-coloured
steps. You pull out a leather throne,
slurping on semi-skimmed milk. Flaming
eyes pulsate on a pair of seesaw wrists. Mine.
(2014)
