hagiography

the autogeography of a no/body
Jul 4

wolf Peach (lycopersicum)

She was growed up to be a shamed,

like a hot tomato, ripe with embarrassment

(and lust),

head branch bent, too fragile, too guilty,

(smelling of chlorophyll),

constantly praying her skin would keep her in

until she could peel it off.

 

 

‘You reap what you sew,’ her mother said,

‘the fruits of your labour’.

Oh yes, the woman’s knees were grass stained.

And what knees, God made them for kneeling.

She never stood up straight.

Broken backs and pip pip pip,

‘Please leave a message after the tone’.

 

 

Weight curved

(the tomato plant, the telephone receiver),

heads hung like parliament;

eyes to the left and nose to the right

(Picasso would have been proud

listening to their talk of mental institutions,

ropes and bullets in the brain),

while all the time she was tied to the middle ground,

a stake (in her future) for a spine.

 

 

‘The fruit never falls far,’ her mother said,

about other people.

‘But I wanted to be a flower, a rose,

a white rose with wedding dress petals,’

she replied, ‘I wanted to be beautiful’

Her belly swelled. Her skin stretched.

Inside small seeds of desire waited for harvest rape.

(split, torn, ripped).

If only she read latin instead of romance.

If only she knew the secret of wolf-peach.

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