what it is made of it will return to

There was a day handed to us:

-glass cup filled up to it’s brim with red dust/black soil/pink corals/silver fleck-

we drank it and we were fine.

We looked at each other laughing-

“the world will be ending tomorrow. It will:

spit out a flame tipped soprano to sing you into sleep;

gush poison into your child’s open mouth

with the fish they will drown;

gently wrap our bones in sweating palm fronds;

leave us alone to suck at our wealth from underneath the soil.”

We drank red dust together and we laughed

-you had started to tear your hair out because you’d always wanted

to shave it all off-

and we were fine.

 

what it is made of it will return to

a reading

She asks you:

What are you doing here?

Dice click, rolling over her knuckles, candle light wanes.

You answer:

Learning how to love.

She lowers her hood, an unblinking bright blue eye, the colour of a summer with a girl who made you feel like you were not alone; the colour of an ocean that you nearly drowned yourself in when she left.

 

Try again.

 

She asks you:

What are you doing here?

A bird preens itself; there is the smell of lavender.

You answer:

Learning how to live.

She stretches out her wrist, black choked veins, the colour of a thick spew of oil and of lines in a balance sheet, the colour of a black out on a street with no signs occupied by people who have already seen apocalypse.

 

Try

Again.

 

She asks you:

What are you doing here?

There are mirrors everywhere, refracting light from different worlds.

You answer:

Learning how to die.

She stretches out into a smile, her body is a circle, the colour of the deepest winter sunset witnessed by all life upon beginning and upon ending, the colour of deep acceptance and of a battleground.

 

She says:

Continue.

a reading