by Tehya Sky


The syrup of this love comes to me like the soul of a small boy in a man’s body. It comes to me like flowers, the microphones to god, ripe at my mouth: damp petals that when simply considered, stick to my lips. It comes to me like washcloths forgotten in the dryer, lost socks and hairpins, the maudlin musings of every corner cello and the sex and slow motion of my unmade bed. It comes to me in dreams of John Lennon and Yoko Ono, painted over their image in cursive writing, telling me about a poignant something that, when I wake, I don’t recollect. It comes to me through butterflies caught in netting, never there for long, through the braids my heart makes of limbs: You know, the happy drunk. It’s the pleasant glass coffee table that holds our crochet of daily life, the languid siesta of every resting guitar. The tree in our garden plays the piano. I hear it, you hear it. The hammock records every inch in her quiet design. The soil gives thanks, confirms that yes, there is nothing here we can deny.