the destroyer > text > Julia Cohen
My lilac hands. I know
you’re breaking into an apple.
I can feel it. The overnight.
Clouds limp over swollen hills
as my freckles multiply, like how over-heated
bees litter the pavement.
I store my brain inside a straw hat.
I store my lust inside your finger.
The lists I store on paper. With two forks I whip
heavy cream in front of the window.
I listen to transportation more than
see it. I’m confused about who you are.
My wallet disintegrates, my lavender hair
I shove into your mouth, seal with
the flexing night. The thinnest pillow for
my breathy hibiscus. Can we pretend this
bathtub is a wave I’m trapped in? Its heat.
Can we not pretend at all? I drop diced fruit
into a bowl of sea foam.
Just tell me what you feel.
The sexual darkness is no different
than any other darkness. Glowing
limbs, rustling & droplets, the hive’s
motor. My computer tells me I’ve played
a particular song 97 times. Today
I accidently dressed like a sailor.
Today my heart’s a spigot. We can’t
turn off anything, really. Music is
a root system, clasps & we are shaken.
By I don’t know what— a slow dance,
a leaf sinking in a pool, as car engines
shred illegible darkness, the lost coast.
What does breaching 100 mean.
I block the sun? Then the poem
shakes it free.