She always saw sat in him an icicle. She knew it was there, something raw and sharp, sitting linear from the top of his ribs, following through to  the curve of his spine. It sat almost silently and she did not know if anyone else saw it, but to her it was clear, as clear as it was transparent. It was in the way he stuttered and grasped for the flashlight, the way he turned when eyes were downcast; now and then it became so strong that it snuck into the corners of his words, holding and reaching to cling on to each singluar letter that he pronounced, sometimes spilling itself from him in pain, his arm jutting out to grasp. 

He held himself together amidst. When girls spoke it beat harder and rose, turning pale under the moon, the lining of the stars. The girl admired it so and termed him ‘the boy with frost-bite’. He was the middle way between two parallel lines that would not touch. He lay in the roadway, racing cars and you could of seen, like she did, the way they pumped through him, each muddling and aiming to get direction, his whole body one trying to reach for control, for the singular straight and narrow. He was a quiet storm but shaken none the less. And she knew he could love, how she could see it, she repeated it to herself that she was the witness of a hurricane falling to a rainbow. She pictured it, eyes opium struck orchids,  and in that glimmer their lines ran perpendicular to one another, together. 

Containing

At times we stop, like silent wolves,

Racing left hemispheres into right,

heart beats sitting fragile cowering cowering,

Between what is said,

what we could. 

I look to the right, 

Telling myself to just

open and form, 

Lace what is

On edge, my solar explosions, 

To spirits. 

I am nothing in darkness, 

armed, flat, solid, aimless

 birthing myself to silence 

Of drum bursting shadows

Reaching to crystals

Holding tightly, closing palm, the core. 

Dive

Breathing, we meet, there in the middle,

Looking upon the width of it

It is blue, deep dusk  

It's wide mouth hissing intangible dares. 

Turning toward and from us,

Voices tell us to cross and cross our 

Legs 

To think

It is perhaps clearer to see 

if you would move an inch 

The roll of film turns, continuous, 

All the while capturing us 

we do not move, still pieces, 

bodies like sand statues

Carved At the end

As at the beginning. 

Pale placid sky's

skip open to me

While we stare

Like Scissors revealing 

A horizon in the form of

 a future child, a girl, I see

Blonde and dainty, 

Skipping toward 

From the purple sea. 

And you 

You are always before 

What I am behind

I find My body twists

Into a ball 

I aim to lean 

Like a snake 

I could strangle you, 

hold you,

 You simply sternly gaze forward 

And withdrawn, acidly I do to

And I see it 

Your finger points to 

echoes of north... 

The summer.

I Dive. 

I did not dance,

That day at half-light,

My mind swayed instead.

My father’s voice spoke,

Tongue twisting trepidation,

It awoke.

Impatient fingers incessantly

Reached to the end,

Returning us to terrific Ten o’clock air.

 

We were eyes open wide, dangerous,

Burrowing trenches behind light, before morning air

I did not dance; the very edge of the world, the outer ring

Shivered

And a skyline, sky-lark, war siren, started to sing.

At first light,

The sun blushes as she does,

Slyly exerting itself from the corner,

Staggering with hazy dreams.

The girl pulls the curtains apart

And her arms stretch out to reach:

see the skyline’s sweep.

Eyes like dead deserts in the night,

are marbles by morning,

She sits silently, almost asleep, her hands,

wrapped around her skin:    

warm, indulgent.