who is giselle?

by Amelie Maurice-Jones

flailing november keels
maple trees into fusilli
shells. what do they let in?
coughs of leaves on the bathroom sill.
the drone of dragging wind skin to skin with
the shower curtain, clawing at the
floral pattern. it lies and lies and it wilts.
giselle undresses before the floral pattern.
skin oxford blue and shaky in the
wolfish eyes of the brother taps. and the
brass mirror hungover against the
whitewashed cracks, oozing slurs
between skeleton teeth. she touches
the back of her neck- if not her neck then
one green bottle, frothing. if not eyes then
smashed eggs. if not cheeks then the
absence of fruit. if not brown then gold.
if not light then room for the mellowness
of gloom. which settles down like a lost
relative and everything shifts one place
left. gloom is a spacerocket that bursts- leaves
you hurt on the frayed edge of space,
hands filled with shadows of your earth
self. the bubbles of bath water gut you clean
and replaces all your bones with wishbones.
flailing november keels maple trees into
fusilli shells. giselle touches her neck and
all the hairs stand up.