The Familiar | Free Hand | She – A Metonym


She rolls onto her stomach,
peaks and valleys of her
body sighing
purple mist, as the sun kisses her awake,
her goose-pimpled skin
rises to meet the day,
stretches over bosom taut with milk
for her babies –

(green, green grass
quiet roads anticipating the
onslaught of
eager tired
blindly rushing to
various mundane pursuits
plugging holes in
lives they never chose)


She smells of last night’s endeavours;
whiskey, sex, and the tears of her father,
“you stink” God says
tracing fingers along each thigh,
tugging at each kink in the black unkempt hair,
“they like it” she says
and closes her legs,
upset, because
God only knows her once a day –

(toxic waste, toxic
trucks factories cigarette breath
animals lamenting the dwindling
value of their existence
trees breaking
in two
lightning strikes and
strikes again
the beloved country the
poor village never
stood a chance)


Her sultry dance with the devil
and his neighbours,
revenge or a cry for help,
hips rolling to the
rhythm of the clouds, and
where they touch her they leave welts,
for shame, she’s lost
in a song she never started,
only fell into once
long long ago,
she cannot remember
when –

(velvet darkness drips
onto bustling streets
silver and gold stardust
settles and
it’s beautiful here
when you can’t see
land of the peaceful
why would you
want to leave?)

– goodnight.

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