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By Mandy Beaumont

Held together by the camouflage of table topped love affairs
and worked in by small knives
that colour her of a red ink
her slender hands hold in a room of admirers
who press in on her inner thighs

Like the brick of school corridors
bending in on summer’s end
the smell of wet concrete
and stale air-conditioning
seem to always follow her
and sit in the seams of her finely pressed clothes.

/She hangs her jacket on her balcony when the season is new/

Placed down and forgotten
her lover steals the noise in his throat
and places it
as graffiti on the bathroom mirrors
where mid sentence in lipstick cursive
she wants his words to be of ever

/letters from young artists and ageing men find their way to her and scratch at her midnight and summered eyes/

Inside rooms like this
she lights fires

Inside rooms like this
she swallows fire

Outside
beside trees on a sidewalk
the placard from a madman reads
“No-one has ever gotten close”
Her eyes close in on the nature of his words
and she burns

/in her bathroom she binds posted letters in gold and brown ribbon and sometimes silence scares her/