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minchinhampton — Iz Maxwell


Medium: Poetry

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



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