Tuesday, 18 April 2017


She is an axe.
No, she is a penknife, folded in your pocket.
No, she is the needle threaded with bright red string. When she moves through the world, she leaves a trail behind her. Fat stitches, almost medical in tone.

She is pop music.
She is the bad-for-you riff, the one that’s stuck in your teeth.
She is singing in the shower again. You go to wash and there are wiry red threads stuck in the soap, in the curtain. Snags, spelling every letter of your name.

She is a door.
She is oiled hinges and a golden latch.
She is the letter you regret as soon as it’s posted. Your fingers open and she falls into the fat yellow belly of the box. Trouble, says a voice from the dark.

She is candy.
She came up from the underworld to bring you six seeds.
She gives you a hall pass with someone else’s name. When they catch you, there’s no get out jail free. But it feels good, the snick of metal on wrists.

You are tempted.
You have never been able to spell penitence anyway.
You follow the string, the letter, the melody. The postman is whistling the bad-for-you-riff, so good in the sunlight, what could possibly go wrong?

She is not an axe.
She has never been a penknife, you can not fold her.
She is a woman, and she tells you, You? You are a fool.

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