I saw it mildly impartial sitting pretty sitting privileged ribs flicker on the screen sprawled mouths I spoon the last cream and contemplate bodies forming graveyards where they lie dusty dogs my own peanut-curled, special treatment born into a rich soil, you have to be born into money to survive the winter.
Monday: Surrey Canal / Saturday: Salsa stripthe water sheen, trembling cavernous, spirals elope, bouncing off the surface. Boats catch, stir a frenzy / pointed feet, mouths parched speaking sweat shared spilling light bodies heavy filthy/undulations, crumpled waves. Washes over you, intoxicated limbs entangle numbers exchanged/skimming stones magenta pebbled/smiles, cheeks/duck feet webbed lolling above, drying in the winter breeze, blowing bubbles underwater warm comfort bodies - close, close colliding shaking light through fingers spread: webbed light catches.
Isabelle Kenyon is the author of This is not a Spectacle and Digging Holes To Another Continent (Clare Songbirds NY). Soon to have collections published with KFS Press and with Ghost City Press. She is the editor of Fly on the Wall Press and has been published internationally.