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Fondant exit a beautiful orb glowing on a wooden stage
woosh in
woosh out
through the door out the closet
pierced up upper below two swollen nostrils
what is that in the air?
Look left, leave right, bread rises it sinks into itself behind a grimy greasy oven door and you worry while the sounds of Radiohead holler in the background "will it be good enough to serve?"
Fingers dusty with flour with yeast with the smell of the inside of her body like the feeling of your arm elbow deep in heaving dough
Did you remember to stay with it? To stay with their soft beige, goopy, bodies as they grew and shrunk, turned over into themselves, confined only by the walls of a waxy gray bin, confined only by the walls of your bedroom, the bedframe and the floor?
Did you remember to be there with IT, with what happens then, what happens now? It's the only thing that matters,
the kneading, the twisting the itching, to be present with the tips of your fingers, the moist life beneath your nails, can you smell it rising from the wood block from the wood sheets whet and tired?
Is it sex or is it bread? Is it man or is it woman?
Is there a difference at the intersection anyway?
The memories are in crochet in the blue light of a goose belly, booze and neon and pinched laughter finally let loose after a days of faking it and faking it for what the fucks sake?
And you want god to suddenly well up now to speak in a voice red and fiery like a phoenix broken like a winters night shaking like the body of a man a woman a girl a boy a something all and the same in one and tell you that you will never have to choose sides, you will never have to cross that dirt path that the intersection is safe and free and completely yours.

 

- Sherieb

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