Helen Goldsmith




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 the curtains,

sends in a breeze. A runnel of sweat
runs down my back between shoulder blades,
over the lumbar curve to sacrum and coxis.

Her fingers thumb my flesh,
The weight of water drops
like a rush of hot piss.

Heavy as lead I lumber to the bed
sink down to all fours, belly grazing
the covers, ready to be empty.

Then a shift, a slippage,
mottled hands guide mine;
underneath, a cup, a head.




Helen Goldsmith lives in Brittany, France. She writes poetry and prose and has work published online and in print with Mothers Milk Books.

Comments are closed.