by Laila Bebbington.
She tells him of her doubts, her flecks.
How resignation sits, it’s reverence
the way it stumbles like broken limbs.
She says it is cracked glass, unfolding
the hue of ash, oceans, sand,
honey, running into crystal like a fire.
Milk. Eden’s flower, floods through her smile.
Settles like leather, spoilt, tethered,
feathering petals across a scattered ruin.
A black cavern wanders in.
She climbs into a desert of green, falls through it,
melting a little, testing solidity.
Small tufts of flies float in, scattering beast
and prey, coiling against her brow.
Swollen bellies glitter, glisten when they break.
Falling into her mouth, black spurs, they cling,
full of stoppages, sails stuttering.
Her oils are fixated by their ploys, tales.
Faces, running like ribbons over her eyes,
too quickly to mount or avoid, too swift to halt or purge.
Filling too quick, soil in a glass.
Sentenced to the Lament.
Voice and nerves smother the ear, falls sick, fails
to still, sate, soothe, scent into a cloud, distance.
A coven of birds breathe into a void.
Majestic, wings flailing, wailing a single note.
Silence swings into a hiccup. Captivity.
This poem originally featured in Art Fist issue 6
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