is the grip of my lover’s tender touch;
ground sin through white knuckles. I know where
your hands once rested by the burns and bruises in
the land where you split me by my ribs, bone
dented where your fingers lay. Shibboleth!
I recognise you by the space you take
up, so for fun, let’s mark where you were in
blue heaven, little spots of red, zappo pink &
sticky sunnyboy heat before you leave. Paint
this body, a canvas learning colour,
our fingerprints thick bold acrylic petals
scraped clean on those gingham art smocks.
But we are not two kids in Primary School,
and the art we make is not something mama
hangs on the fridge. I remember your hands there,
and I’m telling you babe,
come on over –
Written by Audrey El Osta
