Cutting Room. Sarah Pinder
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circulation filtering the sound of the cloud’s breath. While I read
Al Jazeera, I wanted the crush of skin against my face, rich with sweat, alive.
At home, I eat simple food, make stiff drinks with my sister
and watch the sealed city sit like a smoking parcel in our kitchen.
No poems like ribbons today.
Snapshot
Marina, her
braceleted
wrist chops
and churns in
the rough barley,
a huge curling. Her
ghost-pale hair
threshed back, drops off
with drift, a slender
obligation of braid,
brush-whipped ellipsis,
gliding into the cut.
Armoury
A dress flatters when unzipped.
I’d ask for that much, to draw the tab down, lay bare
the swan of your spine, the glacial, slackening shoulder blades.
This hotel is powdered latex,
leather look-alike, neon, a nod
to sea or sugar. You took me here
for a two-minute melody anyone could manage,
even in psychedelic fripperies or a mask.
Your gown in party print
against the mirrored headboard.
Watch how it refracts.
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