Siv Cedering Fox
“But the angel of death is
somewhere,
watering my flowers”
Ever. Ever.
Ever
between
the light light & the dark dark
indeterminate
dusk insinuates
its juggled act of balls &
breasts
performs
its awed acrobatic
picture
a stalked figure caught just so
not
another tall cool glass of water
stood
unaffected at the echoed edge
rather,
a body wrapped ecstatic in pallid leotard
the
back arched & (as if in the very throes)
the
head tossed back, the hair let down, the milky neck
exposed
to whatever night shade
the
tempered chest swollen
slight; slightly
barely nippling the fabric
arms
are bent stems creeping toward filigree fingers
which
unfurl in the shape of wings
a vase of narrow hips bone the sunk
belly
the flat ass
the crotch images a narcissus bulb
struggling to surface
within
this upset frieze
who
would desire to slip its tight skin
is
burned at both ends
below,
a tattoo of hands grip the calves & root the legs
above,
what might be taken for a black glove clapped
across
the hungered mouth
is a shadow leaned liquid from the
flowered curtain
pouring
itself either
into or out of
the
petalled lips
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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