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Postcolonial

by Ariane Scott

You are not.
You are not the same.
You are not the same thing
over and over again
in my head.

I am wearing the white dress,
the one that hugs my tits.
I kneel on the bed with bold eyes.
Invisible:
The pink heat on my tongue,
the flame in my belly,
the magma in my bones.
But I am not

deep underground. I am back-floating sea, singing to you
(I loved you long before, oh
so long before I ever loved you, oh
my love)
long before I ever loved you;
every treble wave,
every siren song a
dimensional erosion,
a peel on eternity.

Not far inland, there is only one clef.
Things.
Fall apart.
Not like a village after the trains came,
but much more than this dress at the seams.
I need no missionary;
do not speak to me of Jesus!
I'm up to my jaw
in weedy desire and passion is a
a coastal nation
on its knees.
Passion is the stony chapel
on that mossy hill.

I equate it first with hot thirst,
then a liquid diet,
then gluttony with sharky teeth.
Where is the infrastructure.
Who will build
the roads.
Swimming with your finger on my spine,
I was a slow sink but now
a shooting submarine, cutting
sunlight's underwater path in
a hazy pursuit of familiar
sea stars never seen,
and this has been done has
never been done (Which time was it.
When they watered our grave with a semblance of sea water
once on fire?) before.

You are not the same thing over and over again in my head.
Every time I see you my face
is pressed against the glass,
eyes watering
from the first glimpse
of mountaintop.

08/19/2015

Posted on 08/20/2015
Copyright © 2021 Ariane Scott

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Laura Doom on 08/23/15 at 11:57 AM

The more I think about this, the more I think about it; the inadequacy of pure thought. Post-cerebral, I feel...

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