MAYHEM
Issue Two – November 2014
ISSN 2382-0322
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D.A. Taylor
Write
Write to save your father’s black whiskers left on the high tide of the bathroom sink.
Write to save droplets of orange oil suspended in November sunlight.
Write to save your last breath of evening air in his doorway.
Write to save an impression of lace on her upper thigh.
Write to save the Mataī shavings your grandfather brushes from the bench.
Write to save the pomegranate juice on her lips from falling to the sand.
Write to save your grandmother forgetting your name.
Write to save the kisses he gives the lip of his coffee cup.
Write to save her name and number scrawled on the back of a cigarette packet.
Write to save your first orgasm.
Write to save the last time your daughter leaves scalding tears on your collarbone.
Write to save yourself from the water as it plunges down the drain.
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