Monday 16 April 2012

13/30

Between the water heater
and summer dresses,
I can hear that night
in his hotel room.
I can hear the twitching feet
of spiders
running across my cheeks
as I moan the way I think
it sounds most genuine.
Sitting under sheets of dust
I can hear the sound of tires
skidding on gravel
the cliff opening its arms
the ocean unhinging its jaw.
The closet doors
guard, Narnia-like,
the sight of me, sunlight in my hair
sand between my toes,
leaving a trail of sinew, tissue,
and a dozen red, beating muscles
in my wake.

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