by phoebe sozou
edited by alloe mak

in another week the rain will sweep our bones together and
we will be some vast and bloated thing, a great body pierced with trees.
how long have we been waiting? this mouth of mine
consumed, no more light, no more crows,
only everything, and still i want to breathe again.

five minutes ago we were dancing in the cool shade of your father’s kitchen
with the TV singing in the other room. you were laughing, you were
reaching for me. miles of empty space between your index finger and
the warm slope of my stomach.
five years ago we fell asleep,
five months i have been falling into you, losing fingernails
to the dirt crammed beneath them.
if you can hear me, turn away.

in another week you will touch me again and there
will be no more dancing—
we will be reaching again, reaching again—
and there is nothing we can do about it. we are
becoming, not one, but something approximating it:

instead of blood there are rivers,
stretching silver arms as if to scrape the corners of the world.
here comes the rain; if you can hear it,
turn away.
i was a damn good dancer and you know it.