Photo credit: Cody Davis
By Kasia Truscott
Your words sing like fat pigeons sitting on telephone wires,
crooking the cables like the creases around my mouth.
Candles flicker on the little brown bodies that sit
naked and embarrassed on my cheeks.
There is only one thing I wish for.
I haven’t yet taught my tongue to trace
the sticky shape of the question mark that lingers
in the back of my mouth like the stench
of rotting teeth.
Now every time I swallow,
there’s a lump in my throat.
The ice melts and it gets colder.
This year it doesn’t snow.
My mother brings me a blanket
and a candle before she cries
herself to sleep.
I remembered that stars only shine
because they’re dying.
I think I must be the galaxy.
I decided that I would paint my name
in cumulus colours across a sky that would bleed
at my fingertips, and then remembered that
I was just visiting.
June taught me that if you undress
the summer months you get a euphemism
for depression instead of a metaphor for happiness.
I am still trying to tell myself
that growing isn’t such a bad thing.
The sky split open and kissed
my ink-spattered bruises,
my scuffed knees, my scraped elbows.
It was slow, floating in gentle waves,
little wet lifeboats in a dry sea.
The message was:
I looked in the mirror
and recognised myself.
My eyes swam in colours
that I had never seen before.
The world really does
look bigger from up here.
I can’t explain how I feel,
but maybe I don’t have to.
It was an old,
But I smiled.
The rain came to visit for a final time,
soft and sweet beneath a glowing streetlamp.
The water, the light; a golden flower,
an echo of life bursting into the night.