Cafune
Eilis Hall
when you lay on your back—
but on saturday mornings you lie
the sun glaring through your window,
on your side and the sun scrutinises
scolding your bare chest and
your shoulder blades and kisses hers—
penalising your rose-tip nipples
as though trying to take your place—
for their private arrogance—
and your hands brush nothing
you must think of something
but the haystack on her head
you run your cold hands
every mark on your bone palace
over your jagged bones and
can be referred to a sculptor tomorrow;
count each one and think
for now your hands dare not focus
'one day i will count more'.
on anything but the calm of
you play with your pubic hairs,
searching for needles that you know
and you hate them and you love them
will be unfound if they are even there at all.
you brush your own face down— for dust; for cracks; for mistakes— you dig your nails into each marking. you pull at knots in your mane, ripping so that your eyes water, smilng that the mirror is too far from the bed
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