Slow Glow

the answer made no sense but the question wasn’t giving
the mortals sought the dead while the dead were for the living
I had a want last night for embroidery and weaving
a cotton posy for the living woven

the figs are ripe to ebony they’re splitting on the tree
they taste as sweet as nectar; not how maidens taste to me
to me our taste is sawdust salty warm and half past three
we’re best (not tasted) hugged and heard and seen

I drink tea for this pregnancy I’ve lost my taste for power
for coffee and adrenaline I find it dark and sour
I miss it though euphoria and the consequential hour
the biro swift till concepts are devoured

raindrops on the roses’ stems leaves perforated bitten
a rolling sky behind them folded mountains not so distant
a saturday in autumn where the days pass by unwritten
death or liberty – smite or have me smitten

the rose leaves and the figs and the little fish inside me
are not burning for employment therefore them I’ll take to guide me
and while I move adagio the slower things can eye me
not for visions of entirety but eternity
time is soft

About the author
Angela has a passion for fixing daily experiences in passe' formal verse gem settings. She picks apples for a living. While Aotearoa is home, she is currently living in the north of Italy and looks forward to translating Italian creative writers. Further writing can be found at angelatrolove.com and annytrolove.tumblr.com.