Trisia Eddy is a writer, editor and publisher of red nettle press, based in Edmonton, Alberta. Her work has appeared in a variety of literary journals, including CV2, ::stonestone::, Misunderstandings Magazine, and Wicked Alice. Current obsessions include Victorian-era taxidermists, abandoned psychiatric hospitals, and printmaking.
When the first birds of earthquake season
arrive, do not be alone. Today is shadowed.
Wings covet the water, beaten. Smother.
Echo an ache outlined from abdomen, breast.
Outer root systems. In a perfect cup, she held
you. Ovoid. Coiled. A limp ring soaked in grass,
eating weeds. Eating blue-black, drinking rain.
Thumbs all gloss, a pigeon-peck. Delineate
the pebble frozen in place. Legs pressed; an urn.
Ground by hand, the tender fine. Concerned
with existence, or obsolescence.
Rare, sated. Facial and shower are calculated.
A sure thing. You, the oil blend. Purifying
requires years. You, the wall crawling.
Love water, the spine.
Belly / hand / turntable.
Despite the curfew, spent too much.
Significant shoulders fell into
something. A casement. Celebrated
by spying what made this work,
through soft soles. Road separates.
Recovers. Only thing needed, restoration.
Installed uneven shins, scattered thighs.
A body full of scars now. Translation:
salt & pepper. Remember to try.
The weight of being plays at gravity. Sleep
inside blues, orange or green. Wasting,
plants drape themselves nonchalantly
upon winter. Dried, then watered by Persephone.
Despite your headache, the sun has decided
to quarter the seasons. In thirds. Traces run
north-south, barely block rays. This way aches
and pains of the night before evaporate
into maroon, rivulets. Run down chins,
pool in cleavage. Tepid water saturates
body parts incessantly.
Creek melt, forming stories. Shuttered
between sheets of raw ice. Sheer layers
skin through city centres, thin glacier flow.
Her breasts grow at the sight, reformed
by younger proportions. Suckled in the midst
of stars & satellites. Desire drawn
from earlobe to clavicle. Crushing
late nights, dispell odd myths. Whispers
spelled more levels. Frigid feet cracking
each thin vellum. One, two, four
subtle tokens on the jawbone. Touch.
At times like blood leak. A singe.
Counting the moles, constellations
based on odours. Then the jaw twists,
contrite. Still sharing the same black,
found in piles at bedside, back of the closet.
At times swimming. Only days left.
No deadline so slight, mere breaths.
A swollen continent dissolves, sand
by stem. Pocketed mania, smooth
under sullen. Needing only sleep, new
colour pressed by eardrum. Vivid.