bane // object
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you you are rasp voiced and shower soft and warm to the touch and sweet tongued and slick lipped and eager to please and my love my love my love By Shivani Verma
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My Mother’s Closet I’ve lived 121 lives in my mother’s closet. I press my ear against the wood, listening to the mechanical heartbeat of the woman living beyond its walls. Her voice breaks through water, distant, muffled. When she slams against the door, nails scratching across the oak, I put my knees to my chest, biting the thick of my lips. She screams my name, haunted. I close my eyes, and I dream. I’ve lived 121 lives in my mother’s closet. I wrap her fur coat around my arms, smudging the fabric against my cheeks – blotched, sloppy. I think of Paris: lavender walls, tangy perfume. I think of a night out on the streets, twirling around streetlights, hearing choirs echo along fissures of cobblestone floors, wispy praises to the heavens living in every word. I dream of us – of mother, huddling up by a bush of rosemary, as she sings me to sleep. The woman in the room mutters my name as if it’s a curse, too filthy to be heard by the wind. Her knuckles rap against the closet doors mercilessly, searching fruitlessly for an answer she’ll never find. Mother told me to plug my ears shut. To wait until the storm receded – for the woman to sleep, and for my mother to take her place. Flickers of light crawl in through the cracks, as I pin them underneath my hands, treasuring them for myself. I feel it run across the lengths of my fingers, ribbons laced along my wrist. The woman breaks down into sobs, thrashing against the door. I whisper to the light, and I watch as it slithers away.
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I’ve lived 121 lives in my mother’s closet. Her nightgown drapes across my knees, as I dream of silk scarves, dim lighting. A flute of champagne, flustered steps beneath the spotlight. I dream of hands, of fingers laced with one another’s. I dream of warmth, of an unforgettable night. Fairy tales. The heat of an embrace. I loop my arm along the sleeves of her leather jacket, hearing the whirring of engines; the cold, chilling handle of a motorcycle. Clouds of smoke drifting across sand, the scorching heat of an exhaust pipe. I dream of adventure, of freedom. Devilish smirks, a weapon in my back pocket. Not a fear in sight. The woman asks for me. She asks, and asks again. Her fists nearly rupture the handle. I remain within, twirling strands of thread between my fingers, mouth locked shut. Running my hand along the jagged edges of my mother’s belt. I dream of missions, of secrets, held underneath my tongue. I dream of foiling crime, of safety. Justice that’s divine in all the ways that it is true. She screams. I keep my secrets. Justice stops for no one. The voice that breaks through the dark, I find, is neither the woman, nor my mother. It’s become someone else entirely. It begs, its voice croaked, broken. It pleads, whimpering. Something cracks. I open the door.
by Natalie Chan
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what would they show in our lovers montage? by Laura Kirkwood would they show the laying on the grass admiring how green it is and your eyes (when the light catches! oh!) an afternoon sighing my soul into the soil they’d show the first kiss obviously clumsily leaning over in the car slightly sweaty palms air fuzzy with summer would they show our house (it hasn’t happened yet but-) the evening crawling over the roof the moon tapping at our window would they show me driving home one day slowing as i came closer to blue lights (we all slowed down) seeing the blood on the windshield the specks like little love heart balloons on the reflection of the sky then the collective acceleration the oh god the is that what I really saw in the moment realising if i don’t tell you how i feel about you i might die
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Jealousy by Enola
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Not A Love Poem by Tanushree Gogoi
Contingent love affairs are a virtue. Like my mother's prismatic bottled perfumes, That she wears to gorgeous raves. Not, for my father But for the inamorates in her bedroom corner, Only to find a muse every midnight, And continue this poem Of love and unsavoury truths. My poem doesn't rhyme, Somewhat akin to my mothers tuneless hums That she'd chirp while washing away The dirty impressions on her caucasian skin Like improvised monologues, Without shame and chagrin. Contingent love affairs are a virtue Borne by escapades and experience, Prudent expressions that sometimes, Reflect on my mother's face, While she bears stibnite On her hazel eyes. I read Tagore's poem 'Unending love' on a Saturday night When I see my mother circling a face, On a vintage polaroid picture
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Tarnished; by her sour drops. T'is of guilt and not regret That tears her face Like a wet weekend, As she huddles up the box Of my father's exiled emotions. And then suddenly, Her contrived exertions, Seem too melancholic to me. Like a solitary tree in the midst of storm, My mother struggled to get a hold of life, With her romance(s) buried within Tagore's poems And unending love for my father In every age, millennium or aeon. These verses hold the beauty in pain, And begrudging sentiments. The beauty of undying love in every other story, But this one. And maybe t'is incomplete, Imperfect and deficient. But maybe in a parallel creation, T'is deemed complete and wholesome Or a breathtaking desolation.
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perfumed pages recs
Plunge by Enola