agnes

by Lucy Thynne

she traces her finger around the globe
of pomegranates
pregnant with
stolen rubies wonders why
we fill our bodies with snatched
souls the spices sing
arpeggios
of fire
push against her teeth
whisper across the ocean she
keeps bottled up in
one eye to their
motherland of lobster
suns
she likes the way the light enters
the boar’s mouth dying
on the cusp of
the apple the place
where the world
ends
its eyes taut shut like
a new-born just hours before
running
across the gaping
womb of the sky
that night
her dreams bleed out on the
pillow she
meets her lover
barefoot.