The Rocks Of You by Grant Tarbard

My tongue is an island pulled by a masked
Lover who smokes a shard of glass in bed.
My cod bone translucent skeleton is
A filter for our life that’s gone before.
My chest is an iron cage of circles,
Cold as a well, blue as the gathering
Rain. I hold my hand to my corpse cheek, my
Fingers crack, an ice flow breaking apart.
My breath is a cloak and dagger cloud that
Repeats a pattern of displaced shadow.
My rags on your floor meld with your marrow,
A transfusion curled up on your ratty
Armchair, its holes cradle my flitting heart,
My limbs move up towards the rocks of you.

Grant Tarbard is the editor of The Screech Owl and co-founder of Resurgant Press. His first collection Yellow Wolf is out now from WK Press.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s