Jul 8, 2014
Asphalt melts to feet in December like it is lonely for skin. Tar's glued to my fault lines, I don't seem to miss you in the evening. The whitewashed house loses music from low windows, a plague of folding minims. I remember sweat-dark, bitter mandrakes, the smell of gas oven cooking nothing at all. I would of shot him then and there, Sister. Struck by an exhaust pipe of gin, I let him cling to me, woke up to panes clotted with flies. Sister cradles the dumb doll that swells teeth like arms. Low-lying woods bonnet her head, curled with heat. Baby strops her gums on the nocturne. I turn the porch light on, examine the mask in the window done up with chalk and rose petal, I am ready for the night.
Blue Tonic, Ainslee Meredith, from Pinetorch