Sous Rature




Matina Stamatakis




From the Sweat Factory of a Faded Wife


For beginning thought which precedes a tired morning & of the rust it calms down, placates with song of femur, meat-pulp. This plica does not go uncoarsened. Dulcetly crushing.  Smooth surfaces turn color, emulsify.  Here is no harvest, but a thin gloom which encases itself inside the pod-womb.  Eternally.

Disequilibrium is soothed in the ocean between pillows. In sand particles between our feet--the distinction of faint sweat after germination, or what being is disrobed in sunlight, [re]moved in the act of mechanization (consume your flesh and all else--the mind has whispered vapor, plumes of smoke).

In dreams it appears as an apparition steeped in Egyptian mythology.  Tooth of "two falcons".  The gossamer visage wrapped in curtains, mummified for spans of time without water nor air nor the assurance of life.  Still.  It would bear the body it came in, almost dutifully. 

There is exactitude in phlegm.  A will to smile, rather conspicuously, with teeth.  To espouse quiescence (while writing the sun into pillow, not overlooking the smallest ray)
in the tiniest beings, animalcules of the skin. To radiate sparks inside the vacuum of her cervix. 

Here, a spread of sun through windowsill--one and cosmic of what light was diminished in, heatedly.  In the small muscles, hardened with time.  Through the parched leathers of sun, where we stretched over land, our blurred sweat.  Everything pre-blessed & self-confessed.  Try so hard to be whittled, then, into ash or knuckle.