A flame encased in blown sugar glass,
Warped. Her arms oscillate out of shadows
In sideways arcs, offer early morning dew
Or frost in sunshine palms. Passes
Out of view. I wait. Anticipate the flash
Of skin in stronger focus. Deeper glow
From the narrowed aperture reveals few –
No – no clothes. Bareness. I do not trespass
On her rapture, her daily routine. Just
Watch; hug my sides, pinch and wonder if I
Am toned like her or just skinny. Her dance
Is my breakfast. So at seven I trust
She will be there. And if I catch her eye
Through our windows, I blush, just glance away.
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Published by alyssiaonline
Alyssia MacAlister is a writer, editor, artist and mother, who lives with her partner in Brighton. On both page and stage, Alyssia is concerned with exploring narratives with a poetic frame, finding the beautiful in the strange. In writing she can find unspoken traumas and the meanings behind silences. Wide-ranging past interests include virtual reality and the female body, spiders and grief. Alyssia’s specialty is prose poetry, but she often works in found poetry and experiments with more traditional verse. In addition, Alyssia writes lucid fiction and essays, while also creating artwork mostly in pencil. She also has a scalpel eye for editing any kind of poetry or prose and can produce poetry workshops.
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