saskiag

my eyelid is so soft in the bent ikea light.

quickly, that i'll bend to gum. turn to analysis and that’s what keeps me there, i’d burn the glass as the kitchen scale

born by chives, wisteria. i’ve been well but embalmed by last night;
i can’t carry one’s bone to my house, can’t sew a ripened meal with a buried hand.

sometimes i rip ginger from the root; bite down, it makes my eyes water.
(turns my spit to heat)
i won’t ask to have it repeated because i feel a child among the ones who carry solid teeth.

i sign up for a poem in my rib.
sit on cold floor olive oil
sinead over me and leaving, sings of troy and i

i’m sorry all my poems bleed sick.
i’ve only written one thing: slip from wet hands, boiled eggs. older women.
this body that’s whisking from my forehead to stomach peel, all i ever say is milk.

a bowl of dust is but a sore lip to you.
if all was weighted by the touch of your fork,
i wouldn’t have a breath, i’d be ice deep in it.

how softly do you walk up the stairs?
is your step a body or a train,