trimmings 01

i wanted one last swim so that i could properly consider these things:

i have three new moles which means my body is remembering where it used to be kissed

there are men pining after me: the woman howling into her dishwasher at 4 in the morning. the woman shoving dried limes into bottles of rum. articulating her spine in the dark. and these men think she is just not sleeping well. one kisses her like he is hungry. another anoints himself with cigarettes like a thurible.

i drank all that i swam.

the intimacy in my reverence for the catfish is due to the fact that i inevitably consume its flesh.

i drank the last of our whiskey. while listening to televangelism and doing my makeup. it’s the same bourbon i drink when men lie to me, when i sit on the porch watching a storm, and to sweeten my morning tea. i wish it reminded me of birthdays or discos or even you. but at the first sip i’m back under a blanket in my backyard. smelling petrichor and turtle breath.

lately i’ve been feeling like a jackal because i have this blubbering laugh tickling the back of my ears. the voice of rage is shrill.

i make my thumbs meet at the small of my back and draw them forward along my equator.

and by the wayside with my hips. seemingly sunbathing but rather oxygenating the ribs. whiskey tongued and tide swept. i am reacquainting my hollow navel with the abundant sky.

words about my contours abound. the whiskey flows to the back gums. i hit my teeth with the glass.

all day we have oscillated between cicadas and rain. the house smells of ozone and man-made air. the rain pacified the cicadas, the cicadas slumbered then woke up crying, there is no room for any other sound. my mother sleeps silent, the dog, the lizard in the window.