A Poem about Everything on my Mind Right Now

I got the half-moons of my lips
glazed
with fish fat after two months
and
realised that fish are leaves because
calcium
skeletons are venation and even if
they
weren’t, absence still wouldn’t make
any
sense to the ones that fled to where
the
colours were as the lights went out
and
the world a sodden monochrome,
hung
a razed veil of pepper strung, when
touch
tried to defy time birthing flowers in cold
skin
sweat and laid the present moment to
rest;
my lunar hemispheres shine brightest
when
shut, worry not but the world desires of
you
to keep other lips open so that being the
moon
becomes a sad thing, to have to shine
off
of another’s light, have no moonset or
moonrise
just flit about in and out like visions of my
childhood
mostly shadows of bird figurines on the
balcony
wall we made them by folding our hands in
weird
ways as the headlights of cars flashed past
on
load-shedding nights when I kept track of my
setting
cuticles, and colours on clothes didn’t
exist
only fragrant patch I now smell every
two
months reminding me of being twelve
and
one forty eight full moons old and smelling
the
same smell on my sports clothes, the ones I
washed
in wavelets of prayer on those days when
my
body was mucky trodden seashore with
concentric
patterns of lust falling on seashell teapots
of fine
blood-boob-breath-
behind-barrier-bullshit-
broken-boundary-bone-china;
no absence isn’t real and all too real
and
partly real when I notice him bending his
arms
at the exact same crook and my arms
closing
in to embrace the same damned volume of
air
give or take three cubic whatevers so that
I’m left
believing time is a goldfish in the saltwater
lake
at the nape of my neck the gauzy autumn
rain
will not pour its heart out to; and feeling
is
subject to the flaw of presuming, so damn the
goldfish
skittering about in the same waters a shark can
never
call its home since we uphold the culture of our
fathers
compelling it to stay afloat in its sin of envying
my mother
who leaves a pungent trail of blood invisible
everyday,
as post-meal she walks back to the kitchen
sink
to tend to the arid ecosystem of unlunar
routine
having adjusted the bangles on her wrist,
to
reset the history of mankind and breathe a
new
line into its lost account of forgiveness,
which
on nights like these I discover as two joint
constellations
in the shape of her ornate-embroidery lungs
which
since the stitching together of this universe,
forbidden to heal
have forgotten to bleed.

 

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