Tuesday, 25 August 2015

Strange Fruit.

the street opened and towards me rushed
                        a heaving winter breeze
in it was a smelly little breath / a reminder
that warmer things would come

and in it i remembered /

that you are some strange fruit
with glaring sunlight skin, soft in an irksome way
like a bruise.
                        when you’re near me i feel gross / unrefined
because i want to touch you / touch the kind of skin
that touches back
            puckers the pads of fingertips, leaves powdery follicles
under fingernails. i say gross
because i’m lazy
and i haven’t found the right word yet / but it feels like gluttony
like a smell
that mums want rinsed away.
                        i don’t know when i started feeling this way 
                        towards you
                        when your mouth became a tangerine / mushy
                        unprotected from me
                        // but it’s more than that

it’s the coming of spring and your house / its trees
it’s the drooping orange sun / the stretchy evening
the golden orb setting up its web, it’s the driveway dew
                        the possums / their babies
                        and all their human-like hands

it’s the champagne coupe
filled with orange juice
they call it ‘kitty’s glass’
            and it’s reserved for me
            for when i come around.

i was in the park
where we had never been together
it was unchartered territory / a place where you were not

and i inhaled an imagined childhood
/ this park, I could have grown up in

the trees, their arthritic wrists
creaking in breeze
their spindly little fingers / branching across cloud
became, steadily, the capillary veins
of your nostrils
it's the way you're in everything, i think