saskiag

i eat grapes in threes, head is hot, to gum-stuck avenues.
god, how you say it.
i think i’d pine for olive trees, won’t spit for you

a woman with complex:
it’s the crumb on my lip

 

i am a girl made of skin. are you a tree, or a fennel seed on my tongue? you’re so small.

sometimes i want to be weak more than i want to be listened to;
i think it’s just grief. (all you know is a driveway)

on days like these, we hold tea between our teeth.
ask to be calmed by some warm, hopeless skin
like a thin line of chai against porcelain.

(milk on your lips, i am waiting)

an acquired feel, winter has;

i love too deeply like a clementine behind a grape peel, thick skin with bitter water.
if a puddle on a sunken sidewalk is love, i have fallen in. 

grapes don’t last, keep a raisin in your pocket.
you’ll miss the way it feels to hold something so small.

while you carry it, just count with me.
1: i don’t know where to go. you’re scheming, i’m unloading.

if you were a poem, i’d be a grape leaf;
cold and raw like the back of my throat.

vinegar lips and honey,
pulled branch and soft wind.
(october in a small town)