Silas Gorin

 

 

 

Last Kiss

She landed,
her first hours totally floored.
Away from the nest
far away as a star.

Her wings are a lattice of straw
with lachrymal dope
binding the pale
rose-raw reed of her skin;

her eyes are a blessing of fear
thrumming the lids
as she rests.

In her sleep there’s a drone.
It is her lover buzzing for his supper,
rude and prancing in putrid.

He is dumb he is busy
He is using her trouble
dissolving the meat.

Her bill is still tender:
still parted.
He lands but to feed her

the questions he has,
not of flesh, not of death,
but of love:

they are interminable
questions of love.
 

 

Silas Gorin grew up in The Marches on the Welsh border and is now growing down, gracefully it is hoped, in Beijing. He works as an English examiner, and during his time as such he has gained an MA in linguistics. His work has appeared, apart from here, in zines such as Triggerfish Critical Review and Mad Swirl, and in magazines such as Orbis and Monkey kettle. He is currently editing a first collecton which will be published, one way or another, and pressed upon anyone he can find who does not recoil at the offer of free books of poetry. So be warned.

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