The orange House
Flies circle the fruit bowl.
Ambling wingstrokes- some
sway down and sink, tiny wafts of
air circulating in amongst nectarines,
Sickly, sticky juice pooling so they can drink.
The air is warm and still,
It tightens around my neck like
hands in a hot bath.
The condensation has a citrus smell,
With small fingerprints it clings to the ceiling,
Leaving smudges on cream walls that are
bare and smooth as pale flesh.
The heat curls outside
where olives like bracelets adorn branches
that bend and lower pointed fingers to the patio floor.
She screams as she flies,
Floating head with matted hair,
Fig tree webs circling in an upside stare,
The sky, reverberating blues
Refracting like the inside of a retina as
the swing turns and turns.
came in running, the girl came in
bounding with the younger one behind her,
Cherry-smeared lips sticky like her bare
feet as she crawls across the earth.
Enfolded like a bat’s wing into the shade,
The empty kitchen rests while
the outside air vibrates through the
white square of the doorway.
A cat yawns and sinks
into the foam sofa,
Claw-marking the fabric.
Dry weeds scratch skin as I wade
through the pine needle sea.
The space is wide like a lost secret.
Gradually the warmth extends—
like a thread through my abdomen
and my feet float towards this
contracting thing. A semblance of colour -
This is where the djinn have silent meetings,
Whispering an unspoken language-
stroking the inside of a cheek like a breeze.
My eye catches stolen glances.