Poetry

Mitosis

Two tonsils touching.
You would suffocate,
if it wasn’t for the phlegm
lubricating the edges.

You attempt to remove
the funereal veil
finding the lids separated,
already full with vaseline. 

Opaque filters should not change
the way you see the dark
but shadows look humid.
Your hair is frizzy.

They walk in pairs;
eyes, lips, hands, nostrils, ear drums.
Except yours have holes in them
like over worn Christmas jumpers,
moth-bitten, out of season.
Listen to that carol
you can’t stop singing.
Only two bars of eight.

You become Noah.
The room that
just became a room
is an arc.

Two chairs.
Matching freshly laundered
pillow cases.
Symmetrical bedside tables.

A pair of half-drunk coffee cups.
Two stars to read the space by,
though it’s not really enough
for a proper constellation.

You are just one
and quite frankly
it ruins the aesthetic.

Katie Smart