semi-
darkness :
the crunch of a
carapace : an owl's broken wail :
there is no wholeness without your voice : cobwebs have spun
cocoons around moments : an upside down moon :
snakeskin hung in a tree : apple seeds on skin mirroring night :

a fist unfurling into lightning in time lapse: if this sky splinters :
i'll use shards as paperweights : for the letters you
left : scraps the gap-toothed broom missed in dark corners :
your breathless signature : eve :
all possible worlds
collide in your
name

Another film where girl meets
boy, where a date is a phone
call and two blocks away. I
dream of his face, the way his
eyes might linger on my lips, a
finger touch the scar on my chin,
gently. For days now, torture:
his voice on repeat in my head.
It seems until now longing was
just a word, not something that I
knew intimately, like my pockets,
like the smell of winter Sunday
mornings in a too-big bed. His
notes colour my day like Dorothy's
Oz. I never want to click my heels.
Pretend there is a witch who turns
questions into answers. When he
reads, I long to be the book, the
syllable that always trips him up,
the word printed on every page.
Under the stars, I want to be his
very first wish - the one that forms
without thinking. I want to be the
x telling him where to sign; the
yes to Darling, will we? To crossing
zeroes off the distance between us.

For N.

It isn't just the twilight
that exiles sharpness from the room.
It's the soft focus of my eyes, my still

unsteady breathing. Your heartbeat,
more distinctive than my own.
When I've found voice and words again,

I continue to write my dream
in your palm – the counterclockwise dance,
making three out of two. And you say

Yes, I remember Lily.

Lily – the girl I introduced weeks ago,
a half-sentence, an afterthought.
Lily – missing link. Our someday child.

Like gods, we call her into existence
by her name. Like gods, we give her
eyes that outsparkle desert stars, hands

to stitch worlds together. A smile
that curls around our hearts,
tighter than any fist.

a hexagonal constellation moves to cover
the trinity of watermarks, gravel, dust.
a bride unclasps rigid cicada wings,

grieves for the hush, the blur before
the haphazard cruelty of scissors
refusing to miss her perfect plait.

she erases the mistakes of tarot cards -
the phantom itch, immortal
pronouns, potato-printed cloth.

rainswept storybooks answer in italics,
in four-four time, snap shut as
windbreaks tenderly tilt sideways.

unglued, like electric ivy, chiaroscuro
spectres, vaguely marble, carve
ellipses from grass, stumble a tango

on the lawn. circular footsteps blot out
temptation that lies, coiled
like a rosary, a snake tattoo.

elsewhere, a flowering. a quiet scythe
divides uncut bulbs into
homesick – fatal – immaculate.