ISSUE VII: CONFESSIONS
Instagram: @iso.maxwell @d.iz.igns
i still think quite often
about that afternoon in your garden
eating oranges in the sun:
i showed you how to peel the rind
in one, so it loosed to a curl;
the quiet curve of your smile was hidden in the shadow of your cap.
soon you’d have to get up
and refill the dogs’ water bowl.
but until we had to move, we sat
on that pew, and when
my bare foot, up on the bench, rested
on your thigh
you held it between two hands,
a prayer, your nails stained golden
like a martyr painted
in the recesses of an Italian church,
later, when the sun went in,
you made bread in the kitchen
because your parents were away, told me to
wash my dirty feet. i cooked for us both and
You swore you’d never liked mushrooms before.
‘Mushrooms eat people’, i said, ‘cannibal,
and the kitchen lit up in a parabola
of your laughter.
that afternoon, i made fun of your cap, said it
made you look like a dad-of-two
with a family car, appropriate costume
whilst we played house. but
i was lying
in the sun you looked bright and fresh
as citrus, as sunlight, as unspoken histories
translating themselves into touch.
Cover image: BOUQUETS 1-10, Rose Lowder, France 1994-1995