I chew this vitamin rod with fresh haste,
with molars that rub and pattern a paste.
With a curl of bean between hub of thumb and nub of index finger,
my mouth corkscrews and I fox away time thinking
I should’ve cut my teeth on diamonds or tin.
Loreena chants from Morocco,
I assemble hypotheses on how and why and peck, peck like an hungry gull.
Cold-blooded zephyr envelopes blonde body boat —
all milky, bare and breasty, goose-bumpy pulpy flesh.
Transfusion of vitamin D into my hide.
Where are you, coffee skin?
I see out the day – this torpid blandness –
and I walk away with a bleached shell/pale pelt baked in thirty-seven degrees.
In my youth, I baked the fat of my back into a skin ripe for a tannery.
Peeling the dermis was a sisterly celebration –
sloughing off in sheets as though throwing me clear from my body.
As I sit with my legs coiled under me, sipping bergamot and bargaining with genetics,
the dog feeds on equally green fodder.
Apocalyptic billows bustle in and levitate.
Puffs of ashen knurls like ribboned haired schoolgirls –
(their hanks of flat-ironed hair and Kafka playing in their hearts)
hold and fold when thunder rolls.
Sparrows flit through boughs of thick figs,
while the dog dreams of wolves; of sniff and growl, teeth and fleeting death.
Pheasants dance around vanilla blossoms, seeking out new flavours –
tails sharp as a hairpin, they tuck their feathers away from the
terrier that keeps chalking up free feeds.
Ducks launch north, creating a flight of memory.
Mosquitoes fling themselves up and out of the mangroves
as the waterline frowns in its indifferent lapping, looping rhythms
like clots of time dropping away like second chances.