In My Hand I Hold Two Truths
I make broth, feel odd wiping it off your face
moments after swiping through bodies, preferences,
dates. Sunset-orange forget-me-nots mar the napkin cloth
I dab along your stubbled jaw. If forget-me-nots
bloomed blood orange. If soup stains could be flowers. If flowers
were a prayer you could pluck and stick in a vase, their waning, gasping beauty
a cure, a means for you to remember.
A giant cups a concave mirror, holds our bubble land
in light-repellent open fist until the colours run. Watercolours
were never your medium; you craved the certainty of oils.
My fingers blot your blemishes,
wipe away shame while
refracted fragments, remembered juices silver my chin.
I am swiping and my father is dying
I am fucking and my father is mad and dying
I am rebirthing myself into myself and my father cannot remember my name.
I am becoming and cumming and my father knows nothing, his foundations fragments.
I make broth / feel odd / wipe off your face // swipe
bodies / preferences / dates // stains / blot / silvered chin
juices / nights marked / torn lace
your face stares / my face / sees / only fragments / remain.
George Parker is a writer, performer, and host. Their work appears in Mslexia, The FT, Arachne Press, and more. Their novel was published by Reconnecting Rainbows. Twitter @a_george_parker Insta @a_g_parker
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