When by Nooks Krannie

When he lightly touched the wool under her jaw, she froze. She knew what this meant, so she traced his hand carefully along her jaw line. ‘I can’t hide anything from you, nothing, just like a jellyfish that holds a garden of every known lick, in perfect harmony, inside it’s stomach, trussed to corals in every movement’, she laid it bare. He grazed with his palm, the arrow that split like wheat, resting, growing, like some story of forever, behind her neck in soft flesh. They stared into the mirror that stood as painfully crooked as the first day, first sweat in lips, in cotton sheets, above the gurgling sink. They stared deep into the crooked mirror and small eyelashes quietly rested after a lifetime of work, residue in a feel-less, yes, unfeeling mix, in charcoal and saffron, equally. They stared and wondered of jellyfish, wondered if jellyfish could sense the shape of toes squirming in moisture, in together, in accumulated loneliness.

Nooks Krannie is a girl/person poet from Canada. She’s half Persian/half Palestinian. She likes being called Nooks. Her words have appeared in Alien Mouth, Wu-Wei Fashion Mag and Uut Poetry. She loves a lot. nkrannie.tumblr.com