<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Thirty-seven degrees<\/strong><\/p>\n A fault line down a white washed wall. Late summer hums, power lines hiss, Somewhere, a child shouts sends in a breeze. A runnel of sweat Her fingers thumb my flesh, Heavy as lead I lumber to the bed Then a shift, a slippage, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Helen Goldsmith<\/strong> lives in Brittany, France. She writes poetry and prose and has work published online and in print with Mothers Milk Books.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Thirty-seven degrees A fault line down a white washed wall. The corner of the mirror. Beads; beryl, turquoise, topaz, jade. Late summer hums, power lines hiss, rotting stems seep their stagnant stench. In the street, a car stutters to start. Somewhere, a child shouts and a pigeon, startled, flaps its wings, flutters […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-12396","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12396","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=12396"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12396\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":12398,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12396\/revisions\/12398"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=12396"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=12396"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=12396"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nThe corner of the mirror. Beads;
\nberyl, turquoise, topaz, jade.<\/p>\n
\nrotting stems seep their stagnant stench.
\nIn the street, a car stutters to start.<\/p>\n
\nand a pigeon, startled,
\nflaps its wings, flutters the curtains,<\/p>\n
\nruns down my back between shoulder blades,
\nover the lumbar curve to sacrum and coxis.<\/p>\n
\nThe weight of water drops
\nlike a rush of hot piss.<\/p>\n
\nsink down to all fours, belly grazing
\nthe covers, ready to be empty.<\/p>\n
\nmottled hands guide mine;
\nunderneath, a cup, a head.<\/p>\n