You’re gonna have to give me a minute. I’m trying to knock back the last dredges of sleep,
that time/space juncture where I talk too much, my brain a loosened enclave,
a deviated stream of feather-light speech, of smoldered sounds
and moans. My mouth is blue, my words are crimson, lace shame up like boot along glittering leg
in that time/space juncture where I talk too much. My brain, an enclave loosened
by whispering tongues, asks what are lungs if not instruments of truth? My mouth blue,
my words crimson, lace shame up like boot along glittering leg--
I utter I wish you called less, I wish harm would continue interfering
at the cost of my lungs, say with every phone call I hope
for calamity, but settle for disquiet. Say I wish you visited less,
I wish harm would continue interloping and I peak
when people bruise me, I don’t know how to love--
With every phone call I hope for calamity, but settle for disquiet,
say yes, touch me there and leave. This can be the end, this sounds like a song--
say I peak when people bruise me, I do not want love. When I sleep well,
I will tell you, peacock feathers grazing the length of me.
that time/space juncture where I talk too much, my brain a loosened enclave,
a deviated stream of feather-light speech, of smoldered sounds
and moans. My mouth is blue, my words are crimson, lace shame up like boot along glittering leg
in that time/space juncture where I talk too much. My brain, an enclave loosened
by whispering tongues, asks what are lungs if not instruments of truth? My mouth blue,
my words crimson, lace shame up like boot along glittering leg--
I utter I wish you called less, I wish harm would continue interfering
at the cost of my lungs, say with every phone call I hope
for calamity, but settle for disquiet. Say I wish you visited less,
I wish harm would continue interloping and I peak
when people bruise me, I don’t know how to love--
With every phone call I hope for calamity, but settle for disquiet,
say yes, touch me there and leave. This can be the end, this sounds like a song--
say I peak when people bruise me, I do not want love. When I sleep well,
I will tell you, peacock feathers grazing the length of me.
A. Martine is a trilingual writer, musician and artist of color who goes where the waves take her. She might have been a kraken in a past life. She's an Assistant Editor at Reckoning Press and a co-Editor-in-Chief and Producer of The Nasiona. Her collection AT SEA was shortlisted for the 2019 Kingdoms in the Wild Poetry Prize. Some words found or forthcoming in: Déraciné, The Rumpus, Moonchild Magazine, Marias at Sampaguitas, Bright Wall/Dark Room, Pussy Magic, South Broadway Ghost Society, Gone Lawn, Boston Accent Lit, Anti-Heroin Chic, Figure 1, Tenderness Lit. @Maelllstrom/www.amartine.com.