Fated Star and Full Fat Yoghurt
Fated Star
take it all on the chin til you can’t
a little boy drags a blue wheelbarrow down Ave B and 5th
a cat and a squirrel emerge, sniffing at each other
Darwin’s transmutation
the first few days of October i cling to my friends like a crustacean
as my sister sells out MSG
i forgot, you have to move your body to feel the winds of change
sit and eat a tunafish sandwich
drink a sugar free gatorade, the color of a public pool
nomad with a favourite pen
i try to be clever like the greats
instead i, Corpus Oris with a screen time problem
this prose is shot to hell
at least i have groceries and a tongue
Full Fat Yoghurt
The moon in South Salem
and the flimsy apple tree in your Colorado backyard
would be great friends. If they only knew.
You chop down branches to keep the fire going,
weak embers, dregs of my love for you.
Full fat yoghurt when you just want something less heavy.
I can count the sun spots on your arms. Like a spider
weaving messy cobwebs along.
I am eating marakuja in Vila Franca Do Campo forever.
And you went back to the store and bought all they had.
Our bodies change shape but our hands remember.
The wild mint tea picked from the cow field.
do you want me to bring the balsamic vinaigrette?
To be considered is to feel even the air around you yield.
We lay down our sheaths.
Facial features blur together. Judgment is shaken off
like sand outside the doorstep.
Hearts are soft as senecio candican (angel wings)
the sea-salt wet of a happy dog nose.
I want to stay in the canopy bed, just ten more minutes of bliss
& pheromone. On my skin, the tendrils of time are forgotten.
What does one call that? Lust on holiday?
Love untested by time?
And I miss you with a dull force at my side.
The phone can’t enunciate it. Separated by glass and
the jet stream.
Time runs like water.
We were on the way home from dinner in Sao Miguel.
The one time I paid.
The smell of hydrangeas at night with the windows down
moved me to tears. Spoken wish.
I was wanted desperately in return.
About the Author
Indy Yelich is an Aotearoa-born, New York based writer and musician. Over nearly a decade in the city, she has published two books of poetry, Sticky Notes and Dudette. Her loyalty is split between the written word, the New York Knicks and the pigeons of the five boroughs.
