Clenched fists hang
like ripe fruit, pools
of rainwater collect,
drenching pavements bloody
with crimson colours
unhinging from their palette.
Days pass & fruit bruises:
rubied knuckles burst
like grapes, nipples grow
into swollen figs, scarring
all shades of purple-

Peeling bodies descend
on one another, birth
bruises that blossom & move
like the falling of flesh
into prayer. Plastic carrier
bags split in two like my
mother’s uterus. Inside or
outside, a wall is a wall &
only some have doors-

Loose plums roll into
street drains of their own
accord, shuttered suns
set alight eye sockets, become
flooded with anything
other than sight. See also:
these hands as empty pages,
as cleft fruit, orchards
of blades, as sutures threaded
from silk, palms spread
like fat slabs of cheddar.
We are trying to baptise
everything without a name,
we are barely holding
ourselves together-

We are barely holding
ourselves together. Elsewhere:
hospital gown, my mother
giving birth to me with her
legs closed, altar of white
room packed with white lilies
on top of white lilies (as if
they already knew I would be
the death of her, don’t you
think?) A whole history of
blackouts in which we do
not remember anything,
or at least, that’s what we say-

On these days,
everything & nothing
becomes important,
a siren, both a reason
for & against
fighting, a hand,
a punch, sometimes
the only possibility
for touch-