Giselle den Breems
Early spring: stretch marks
The distance makes everything tiny and rapid: snow melts and the earth goes wet and new crocuses burst through the soil to the pace of a string overture — white and purple and green from a distance they look like snow their entire life cycle described in terms of furling it happens in a matter of minutes: up up open turn close open turn tilt wilt bow droop the timestamps aligned with the time signature, jagged as a marionette the constant whirring countdown to the next instant
the candle running down the sides of the holder and pooling on the hardwood floor in a single accelerated sigh, clogging the slits between the floorboards the blossom reaching, making a fist, rotating its wrist, and opening to reveal the change from palm to fruit [magic trick] the gasping arc of bones expanding, skin groaning as it shifts, splitting at the seams in purple and maroon, fig colours everything tearing, mouths agape, to contain life never enough to prevent its inevitable spluttering out
the garish hues the stains the fresh new bodies rimmed by bruises, forever tender in places they grew from.
The Correct Order of Things
The artists know none of that hazy European light
where I’m from, the sunlight cuts bodies and landscapes in two.
Red flowers against the blue sky, stone fruit that falls apart in your hand after one bite.
When the dreams are memories and light plays on the salt water in the small of your back
and it’s too bright to open your eyes — this must have been what they meant
when they talked about being young. It’s true, you look younger in this light,
with your darker freckles and lighter hair and eyes closed, cheek against forearm. It’s a way
of going back in time.
The sunburnt bodies strewn across bedroom floors, silver jewellery pressed
into red skin, cutting, catching the candlelight, the morning light, scraping the wax
off the wood with our fingernails, scraping the wax from the wound. We don’t have to
keep that part. You never have anything to say to me. The pattern of my duvet is
imprinted on your thighs. What would it matter? Don’t we all have the same secrets
anyway? When you’re in the room, the entire ceiling is a skylight.
You’re blinking yourself awake, propped up on your elbows. There’s sand
stuck to the nectarine juice on your belly. Scars fade into stretch marks,
which is the correct order of things. Our shared childhood is in your eyes.
We could just as easily be nine, half a lifetime ago, making origami at your dining table.
And here we are now, haunted by the art of our younger selves, the ache of creativity gone rancid.
Let’s go back into the water. It will help. The sea will hold us, even if we feel safer
inland. We grew up here, after all. I may as well fall in love with the way
you see through my words.
Back home, cover the floor in tea lights and talk until dawn.
The way the sunrise makes the ocean blush, sat on the cold dunes,
knees to chest, side by side, your body heat keeping me warm.
Tip all the candles over so the hot wax makes moulds around our bodies;
string up the spines from the rafters; let the sun shine through them and reveal
the different translucencies. Take my hand. Spend a day in the sun with me.
Watch the red flowers against the blue sky and know that we lived
through the specific pain of each summer since thirteen.
Giselle den Breems is an 18-year-old currently studying psychology and philosophy in Wellington. Outside of writing and reading, she enjoys long drives with friends, spending time in the outdoors, listening to music, and cooking for people. Her poetry can also be found in Symposia and previous issues of Starling.