The split-palm steeple: a confession

I like you best with smear of jam on cheek (to be married by the hair strands) A raspberry line that bends with the unripe croaks of daybreak asking if I have watered our prayer plant: ‘It is quenched’ I say, though by my touch and not the can. The velvet veins, whisping in moonlight crying out for soft strokes. Back and forth, petiole postulate— The soiree and sway, your lips at the dinner table pushed out as if the air is a magnet repelled by the sun-split hour So hush, (please rob them of ornament) and place, (honest now) like the velvet one upon our mantelpiece, one leaf crumbled* *An accidental hoover suck, my sincerest apologies

Evie Wilson