The year the birds didn’t sleep

The year the birds didn’t sleep
and fences became more invisible with each blink
we got up to stand on holy earth.
Our energy we drew from stars,
our dreams from dew.

We bathed our bare bodies in marigolds
and spent days lying face down, toe on toe, not looking but breathing.
The houses we had occupied only hours earlier
lay in front of our feet
like waxen statuettes waning in windy weather.

Wind couldn’t hold us down.
We would climb on roofs and pick tiles like apples
and stare at dusk and dawn alike,
seeing what grace was.

We prayed to the gods of little things
and instead of folding our hands
we painted our feet
because for the first time
we didn’t want to know better.

About you

You are a grain of salt
between my eyelashes:
when I blink,
you fall.

I am the water
flowing through your veins.
I run through you
like the river Nile,
giver of life
bringer of death.
I can fill you up
and I can drain you
and every two years you crumble
(you think I donʹt know
but I do).
I crush you beneath me
like a good god gone wrong.

You are the shadow beneath my feet:
when I move,
you disappear.

Impenetrate me

These are my hands working
their way
up your spine
creating the perfect rhythm of train tracks
one by one by one
perfectly square
fingers feeling bones
pores and sweat and yet
another human puzzle piece
until they crack you open and
{it’s so dark in here}
reveal your pulsating heart
still moving
they wind around this
pile of flesh
entangling encircling clasping.

These are my teeth
on your vocal chords
and they touch and no one
knows their secret
vibrations
as they form your consonants
they creep up your throat
reaching your tongue just
in time
to rip out this mouldy
artefact and
{at dawn}
resile.