in the mornings,
clutching at my loose clothing
losing my fingernails
in cotton,
i gaze into portraits and
mirrors;
the gaping faces full of oily holes,
and the orbs, oceanic orifices
bring me to him--
his shuffling kitchen-floor feet
with curling toes


now, those feet accelerate
the velocity
of aircrafts in poison-green storm clouds
writhing like our bodies
when we produced lightning


the windscreen a snowglobe;
the motor shaking,
rumbling into the aching curve of his back
"oh soldier" i said
as we kissed before
metaphorical trains and i felt
the sick call of the steam.
we are a vintage photograph.
of ghosts,
of wartime lovers.


"be a heroine", he would whisper
and clutching
my oxygen through his lips,
sigh
inhale


now the kitchen is empty
and my featureless hands
make breakfast for him,
the shudder of cutlery is too
much;
i lie groaning,
my face canine, islamic
heroine-yellow.
stiffening our jaws,
we are hardened.