the rhythm of lines fluttering chest
two moons in front
and to my back a blazing sun
a mane toss
two crescent moons lie waiting
a cotton cloud
two moons are eclipsed but the sun!
I know my mind
like the grooves in your brow and yet, and yet…
I like all things vernal,
unfurling like a trill
from the throat of a nightingale.
I feel like the apple of the eye
of the world, and still these words
are an approximation while my identity
is being reshuffled, Inanna to Ishtar,
syncretisation. The withered grass
feeds the young. I was never
the shining torchbearer of a precocious generation,
my winter self, longing for band-aids and lollipops,
the simple solutions to young hurts.
While a dirty neon bruise cruises behind the distant canopy,
even in the lime-green light I am a clowder of cats
in the henhouse with a cudgel.
Didn’t I tell you,
I don’t do subtle in this season.
But hope springs eternal in my breast too.
All vernal things I wish for.
A few days ago I received a message from the editors of Reflex Flash Fiction. My flash, entitled
The Time I Lost My Appetite, just lost out on making the long-list, but they liked it so much, they still wanted to publish it on their website.
You can read it here:
The Time I Lost My Appetite.
You are looking at a very happy writer!