mollie willow
The taste of metal is unforgiving
Blindfold me
and take me
to the old pond
to the dearth
of my sinuous
memory
choked-out perfume
calloused palms
your feet
imperceptible
with socks on
chewing my cheek
staring into
dim afternoon light
nursed by
the hum
of a fridge
left open
a tingling spot
about to bloom
I’ve spent
so long
misplacing
faith
smelling like
vanilla cream frosting
while somewhere
a dandelion seed
is taking flight
I guess
in the end
there really is
no pleasure
in a lukewarm death
Mollie Willow is a writer, poet, florist and Cancer sun living by the sea
supine
the sun catching
silver
belly ring like
a little crescent
arching
toward the
third person
back then
all it took
was a smile
the tension
of a phone
off the hook
the perceived
languishing
of restraint
“one of a kind”
a mechanical swan
in the wild
stretching
into something
unearthly
“watch me”
the outline
of a form
against a backdrop
of scented pillows
an invitation
to memory
like the magazine
instructed
ensure
a cold breeze
skin pricked
blue
powdered jasmine
eyes pearlescent
& vagrant
nerves that
refuse to
settle
little bows
on everything
i worked on
being a body
self referential
& cartoonish
my hunger
only
symptomatic
of my impotence
face inches
from the ground
refusing
to swallow
mined
& polished
like a diamond
a lacquered pastiche
i wanted
seamlessness
to be smooth
to know
the feeling
of a cavity
but never
feel it
remove
all recollection
from my
limbs
God knows
i killed
for it