scrn pl a
she left the stairs in a panic. her back was almost parallel to his face and sky.
they’ve fucked before in a language, she said, the translator came into the sea fm. metals, bitter witches covered their faces in wolf songs. in his hands? she smiled and metals fell on his runn’in, nike uh. shying, crawled under dirty skin for the remainder of 140 characters. her lungs cracked, her face grew beyond her forehead. he kept his hand under her skin till they were both airless.
his chin is a blur. i broke countless graphite filling in the dirt of her hair. my film project is a secondary character in dislike for corn and animus.
catch me if you can and you’re a statue. when i was 12 years old, someone asked me if every person around me was an individual. i tried my best and said yes. she asked me again and my heart raced. i committed to the yes and she walked away, careful to not shake her head. i doubt my speech, sound and prose. i once hid behind an adult and their body was not enough to cover me. my heart races often, loudly and i let it out of habit.
stretched velvet on your grandma’s sofa, i remember being arrested, pushed against the wall. we hadn’t hit puberty yet and you were holding my hands behind my back, you learned that from the awful cop shows your grandma watched. that time when my face was ripe in saliva, i looked on my side and could see the kitchen cabinet swaying up and down, as if breathing so i didn’t have to. my face was a grease bed, flat without tenderness. you were shouting gibberish and i thought about how we looked through your brother’s medical text book once and giggled at all the pictures of human frailty.
becoming the face of a hole of / a face of u / i’m dead in winter like spiders / i’m stains / of tar in your mother’s phone / filling in a galaxy inside my throat / she’s asking about butter / & crabs / boiled in perpetual screams / someone’s child is knocking on my knee and / and now there’s a scab on / my knee & a single hair / my face is a hole / and the fucking kid didn’t even have teeth / like who the fuck lets a kid with no teeth touch a stranger’s knee? /
bring forth a bucket / fill it
with a green body / ur mom’s samsung w/ xtra gb
there’s wood growing under my hand /
the cupboard of my childhood is a termite haven / filled / with micro holes
& church faces / of a lush god.
bicycles around a graveyard are this century’s lanterns. blue vomit of cold, stuck under my feet. we moved from apartment to apartment in search of freezers with ice makers, your tongue was miserable in russia and you saw it through 4k. the fight’s strong. we’re over but so what. fight, fight, we’re three buildings apart. fight’s not over. you let go of the bike and i fell. i fell into a bed of skin and cat hair, i tasted copper in my mouth and it destroyed every crown that every back alley doctor gave me. spit and chew and spit right here.
i’m scared of nail clippings and shower gels with almond essence. when i was a baby, an adult was told i was allergic to peanuts which turned out to be a lie. i’m holding a vigil for my soft death on west street, right by the thai restaurant where i would’ve died if i was still a baby. and allergic. magic grownups. all is forgiven after death. we make horses blind for our safety, we control, magic in full hands. but all is forgiven if you die. you know.
moons in bakery shops is the world we live in. sweet, sugar and a math problem. plastic on bicycles doesn’t last, like us, two. like. we spit and chew and fight, here and everywhere in erosion.
Nooks Krannie is a Palestinian/Persian female writer from Montreal, Canada. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, “I have hard feelings & I wish I could quit chocolate” (Moloko House Press, 2016) and “candied pussy” (Thistlemilk Press, 2017). Insta: @nookskrannie