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Emily-Beth Hodgins
‘crushing’ & ‘palmistry’
.
Crushinglightening flash smile,
hands roving, mapping, learning for later,
worshipping without prayer –
or is this prayer?
our own form of scripture.
your laugh is my gifted frankincense,
wrapped in humidity and electricity,
and there’s a buzzing around us, love,
but just ignore it,
for my heart makes funny sounds.
this may not make sense,
but you spin me incoherent.
words are slurred; i’m a drunk –
vision warped up so high on your lap –
what spell did you put in my drink?
Palmistry
When the crow in the smoking tent reads my palm,
it is your hazel eyes that they find.
Weaving in and out of my lifeline,
Crystal quartz clear.
From the edge of my palm
to the base of my wrist,
your influence is etched,
the marks criss-crossed, stamped at birth –
pre-life.
How the shadow tuts and chitters,
as it looks upon my life.
Lines like the streets of a medieval power,
unplanned and unmapped, encompassed
by stone walls.
Black feathers spiked,
watching the incense pull awry,
curling in smoky ringlets, and
whispering hymns not meant
for the physical.
And who are you?
Throbbing cut, predestined scar.
We have not yet met,
though you are the blur in my eyes, the kink in my neck,
the scent I do not know,
but remember, distantly,
faintly, when the crow
does cry.
When the crow in the smoking tent reads my palm,
it is your hazel eyes that they find.
Weaving in and out of my lifeline,
Crystal quartz clear.
From the edge of my palm
to the base of my wrist,
your influence is etched,
the marks criss-crossed, stamped at birth –
pre-life.
How the shadow tuts and chitters,
as it looks upon my life.
Lines like the streets of a medieval power,
unplanned and unmapped, encompassed
by stone walls.
Black feathers spiked,
watching the incense pull awry,
curling in smoky ringlets, and
whispering hymns not meant
for the physical.
And who are you?
Throbbing cut, predestined scar.
We have not yet met,
though you are the blur in my eyes, the kink in my neck,
the scent I do not know,
but remember, distantly,
faintly, when the crow
does cry.
Emily-Beth Hodgins is a third-year English Literature student at the University of Queensland. Her poetry often explores intimacy and how it shapes and remakes the human identity.
Emily-Beth is featured in our issue 01 print . Get your copy here!