Les Rêves des Notre Ours #2 | Page 16

The Funeral of my First Love

the lubrication of your art is gentle,

two tongues sup from the same font,

love: a greasy packet of chips –

late night, discursive,

to the beat your heart struck.

I am krill to your whale,

unfathomable, a plunge into night spaces.

I followed you, the lilt of your brow,

as you plunged melting fingers

through my belly button –

you drank from my eyes.

the cool cant of dreamspeak drenches me,

forcing me to bathe in the shallow scream

of your mouth, every night.

there, testing teenage possibilities,

you clambered inside.

your hair is like brine, you whisper,

your forehead a prairie, I respond.

your gloom like a nut, you shout,

fallow like a fallen apple, I crow.

and so on, back and forth:

your toes are tinder… 

your teeth flint…

your name bent,

your ears onyx...

until we are spent.

crooked to the swathe you swept,

the swing of your scythe

as regular

as a soap opera.