Tuesday, 19 May 2015

16. Nice

let’s always be nice to each other,
she says, while closing
her jaws like automatic doors
around the reception of his flesh

let’s, he says, with a flat palm
like the blare of a horn
on a motorway in the
hottest part of summer

twenty minutes and their skin
is scuffed and spattered
as dustsheets in red

his bruises take the longest
slow yellow moons
rising over the hips’ horizons

hers are faster, she’s always
been a track star
in blue & purple velour

still, when she breaks the ribbon,
when she yells winner
with fists high in the air,

she means them both
this victory over dead blood
and patience with the skin

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