The Mysterious Wisteria Grows Beside a Seated Stone, poem by Amy King

I was born at a very early age. Later, I came to resemble
my misconceptions and grew into the egg
I had been commissioned to exist and avoid.
In this way, we are issued.
My freckled shell now sings etudes in memory of Chopin.
Events have become things that happen through the music.
A star kitty floats between our arms and teacups tilted.
In this way, we become a collective.
In this way, we share the effects of mercy and cocaine.
In this way, we emit and absorb the shocks of erecting walls
between us.
An African red blushes my inner cheek, where unspoken
blood singes my lips. The thought of your papilla holding
steadfast when the hairs take root makes me quiver.
You are a growing human moreso than I ever charted.
I make marks on sidewalks and sand and move around you.
My shell is my torso in need of constant attention
and embarrassed by unworded cutaneous hungers.
This flesh thins and the calcium startles bodies of water.
Instead of the rest, I wish the blue mountains would grow,
claim our terrain, eclipsed by the peacock’s transsexual mane;
I wish the first year started to show through, confusion
built from happiness, viewpoints like smoke, afloat and attack
the senses as though looped through the eye of a wave
on a beach you see us through. I wish
on a barge of ice with questions, you are a pleasant person
to spend the mood of the moment, with forever.
I wish those lovelorn, the bad stories in furnished rooms
a chornic reverie to be carried by the shadow of the opal sea.


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