unloosed, there is a whole me
hugging my lifeline like a dream
my kind at my side, I can barely feel
the hole in me,
together we Samba,
weaving like eels upstream
in dancing, we knock sides, I forget
what it is to be free.
You’re afraid of beetles. That’s your first mistake. There’s a ginger-kiss attitude about you, you lead with your teeth. There are holes and spaces that echo. You should see to that. I have a hive of AFL mates. There’s a game on at the fields. I kick like a wish, you should watch.
Sophie never liked wishes; you never got what you asked for. The hive glistens with sweat and stale beer. They dance a win. Sidelines were never her thing.
You’ve got groove and a pretty face, I’ll give you that. Our lips make an odd shape on meeting, that’s a good sign. You’re hard to love and hard to shush, but there’s always room for improvement.
Sophie had cat eyes and a groove that groaned like sex. Liam’s lips didn’t tessellate and he was a Cancer. Crabs don’t make good mates.
You’re quite something. I wish you were smaller; I’d wear you as a medal. I’ve got the strength to carry it. I have a strong jaw, I wear a beard well. I’d be good with children, though you shouldn’t have any, you’re not quite well. Will you make noodles for dinner?
Sophie was fond of noodles, but not fond enough to share. Children make her nervous, the heaviest of medals. She thought she might have seven just to spite him, another man’s children from a foreign hive. Some bloke grown from a swarm of muscle that slaps each other’s arses and drinks Gatorade. The car stops at the lights and she gets out. There is a beetle on her sleeve. She lets him crawl on her shoulder and calls him Liam. Walking by the web, his fate was evident. Spiders make the best mates. A month later he sends her a message.
I would have made you my wife. I wish you’d be reasonable.
Sophie never liked wishes, you never got what you asked for.