Purple Mold

If I were to be born again
in another shape

I’d want to be a plum
grown on the tree

manured with the remains
of my human body

where I would swing
in the grassy wind

seeing only green and not
knowing I am purple.

And maybe in human hands
raised to human lips

I could understand
what my teeth used to feel,

lacerating smooth skin to breach
the sweet juice, the fresh pulp.

Still Life

The still air, if savoured, would taste like fish
scales, floating on the surface of water
left for too long in a stainless steel bottle.

It’s the same air that dried the red bricks,
without any heat, and now dishevels
the feathers of the robins on the parapet.

It’s the same water that every evening
gushes from the maiolica sink to fill
the hexagonal glass on the bedside table.

No wrinkles appear on the clear surface,
brushed by the air that filters
from the triangular holes in the curtains

and then perches on the mattress: softness
I am silently sinking in, interrupted
just by the fridge’s edges, that start to rumble

in the moment my foot touches the last
fresh corner of the sheet.

Like fawns crossing the road at night

here we stand, me and my breath
– living deep down my stomach –
on the line dividing asphalt from soil,
hoping the passing cars’ orange lights
won’t dry the hawthorn bushes.