You wake, dry leaves
stuffed in your mouth.

Your hands leak burst berries,
spilling my sheets.

At the bed’s foot,
your last week’s self.
His bruised-pear face drips red.

I been shadow-boxin,
an’ win,
you say,
smile and wince.

He slips the window open.
Rain curtains
wash to the white of his wounds.
Wet night settles your face.

Your tongue is bitter
with my tomorrow self.
She has been chewed to smooth green paste,
skin and chlorophyll
at your teeth.

By the window he vomits up
crushed stems and
pieces of her spine.

You cry salt mist between my breasts
and ask me what is wrong.

Torn foliage, lime tart, your words.
I bite down on my flesh and
flinch, mess we have made,
say nothing.


About Janice Lynn

Janice Lynn is a Bahamian writer. She holds a Master of Fine Arts from the University of British Columbia, and has published in journals and anthologies including Tongues Of The Ocean, A Sudden and Violent Change, and We Have A Voice. Her writing has been shortlisted for the 2011 Small Axe Literary Competition and the 2012 and 2013 Commonwealth Short Story Prize. She lives in Vancouver, BC but will always be a Nassau gal.
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