Desire & quiet moon
The crush is fleshless & so it peeled
me, kicked up derma rubble released
into orbit, each face
is its own planet on their own
accord, in his face is petal republic
good as desire: peony, dahlia, oblivious
rose, chrysanthemum. My stomach
strums a pitiful ballad, my struggle
oval shaped, & I am beavertail, I lose
you for good as desire— love
is impossible to be in trouble
with, sit down if your head’s on fire.
Head trauma
Stem & or soil reckless on a wick, battery
powered everglow— chalk dusts itself off the petrol station
cement, I consider if all this is in my best interest, it extends
itself into a body of brick— nearing the clouds more each
try.
A cadet blue crayon was the one I scribbled with the most,
making spirals & spikes in hopes of a velvet pasture to manifest.
Trauma is said to make oneself tough / strenuous / stiff /
fierce, like a dingo, a dingo at a green or red light.
I ran into a plum
behind the petrol station store
( I was so little / eyes
milked of juice),
it sputtered sepia like candle wax
yet so sweet I shivered—
I know I have changed.
Dorothy Lune is a Yorta Yorta poet, born in Australia & a Best of the Net 2024 nominee. Her poems have appeared in Overland journal, Many Nice Donkeys & more. She is looking to publish her manuscripts, & runs the substack Ladybug Central at dorothylune.substack.com.