Mireille Astore

Pink

 

But the accident that brought her here
lingers
as if in slow motion
a memory sticking like a scab
She picks at it
exposing fresh cells
pink with the angst of renewal
They have not as yet witnessed
her skin’s delicate moments
She tastes the oozing droplets
iron masks for her tongue
and respire nausea’s inverted masses
Excuses… excuses
pummel a tête-à-tête
not meant for naked faces
A kind obsession
delves into the caves of je’ita
in rage and defiant
smelling of fresh kill
And now
bats stir and swarm for the entrance
turning day into night
sprinkling the earth spit
or
scalpels for the spring

She is now ready for the autopsy.

 

©Mireille Eid