#even-and-odd

[februarypoetrymonth-blog]

February the Second

With the soft-voiced promise of her sigh, I come undone.

Then I am weaved back together in a moment of perfect clarity that settles in the eye of the storm.

The winds wail outside the window; leaving the screen door thumping against the pane. The rains come and go like nothing I have ever seen; leaving vast puddles to be soaked by the sun –

or lapped by thirst-driven geckos with pink feet and olive tongues.

But our rose gold bedroom hums with the sound of the air con turned down to low;

and her sweet loving moans. 

-MEFM

[even-and-odd-blog]

feb 13th

She can’t help but love him, tiger balm on bruises, transluscent powder sets black eyes with his bastard in her belly. her suitcases have been packed and by the door for seven days She says sorry 30 times a day standing in front of the mirror and practising smiles when will she learn that the sorry never sticks?

Love is ancient paiting preserved behind glass, it isn’t for normal people.

Love is a pop song with a catchy tune and empty lyrics, what really counts is a bolt on the front door.

Dancing alone around the kitchen table and dreaming of dawn.

- EMAM

[even-and-odd-blog]

feb 11th

She doesn’t look back, although she wants to see the babies face just once. Her fingers are numb her tongue is thick with words that cannot speak for themselves.

 See the babies face just once-  the father never learned her name.  With words that cannot speak for themselves  she’s convinced she’d become a pillar of salt

  The father never learned her name,   the letter she wrote was binned and long forgotton.   She’s convinced she became a pillar of salt   mother turned her face away.

   The letter she wrote was binned and long forgotten and    her stitches ache and itch and bleed.    Mother turned her face away while the    nurse teaches her to bind her breasts.

    Still, her stitches ache and itch and bleed,     she can’t look back, although she wants to-     Nurse teaches her to bind her breasts but     her fingers are numb. Her tongue is thick,

- EMAM

[even-and-odd-blog]

feb 9th 🍑

Nothing more than a distant comet. I learnt today that our sun, which I had long presumed was static in our sky, is in fact hurtling through space, dragging us in its wake.

I debated telling this to the elderly gentleman at the bus stop but he was too busy scrutinising the peaches

at the fruit stand

His black eyes burning into them like stars. He doesn’t care about the comet dragging me in its wake.

I wonder what he sees in peaches

When I look at them I picture something else;         my tongue in its cleft         sticky juice on my chin

🍑         our faces grow redder         lit from within         a million candles burning inside me         brighter   brighter   brighter

        turn my pliant flesh to wax         mould me         moaning

        years of keeping my orgasms silent         church quiet in the night

        you had to teach me how to sing         to let my cup overflow         give my body over to convulsion

        epilepsy is dancing

        the sticky sweat eases our shapes together         twirl your plum stone in my fingertips

        did you know I can knot a cherry stem with my tongue?

        every flick of your lima bean and your thighs shake faster         maybe I’m the goddess who can make the earth shake

        arch your back, bite me harder,         feel my sex blossom in the palm of your hand

And I wonder, are you just a comet, passing though my nights sky? Or are you the sun, dragging me in your wake?

The bus comes, and I, blushing as a bride on her wedding night, board it

with the memory of a peach on a cold spring morning.

- EMAM

[even-and-odd-blog]

feb 1st

jealous is the night as I drag my head from the pillow slumber wrinkling my cheeks

blinking into a blue blight blur tap the screen to snooze another turn the umber sky awakes

but I’m so loathe to leave the life I lead in dreams who am I at this hour?

hypersomniac who never learnt to say no to my captor, consort and king who holds me tighter in his arms and whispers

‘not yet, love, not yet’

as night in her sable vestment retreats across the bitter silver city streets lonely as a lover

             when the morning comes

- EMAM