Von Aegir Literary
Two Poems
KIWI
No Return from the Bridge
You cycle a finger around the porcelain rim of a cup
gifted alongside the black contents it vessels.
Steam rises from the surface, spiraling in curls,
wispy white like little ghosts folding onto themselves,
not unlike how marigold strands turn over in ringlets.
You knock back the rest, yearning for the scalding
on the way down, the intensity not quite reaching
the level of that smoldering burn from a gaze as bold and brilliant
as the solar flares flashing in coils from the sun.
For once, the bitter dregs taste acrid on your tongue.
gifted alongside the black contents it vessels.
Steam rises from the surface, spiraling in curls,
wispy white like little ghosts folding onto themselves,
not unlike how marigold strands turn over in ringlets.
You knock back the rest, yearning for the scalding
on the way down, the intensity not quite reaching
the level of that smoldering burn from a gaze as bold and brilliant
as the solar flares flashing in coils from the sun.
For once, the bitter dregs taste acrid on your tongue.
After
There is magic in the way he sleeps, he thinks,
twining a finger made calloused from axes around
ribboned pine, viridescent under the waning candlelight.
An aroma curls in the air--
burning wax, yellowed parchment, cold angelica;
the charming aftermath of coalesced concentration.
He traces along a cheek pressed into a book, small
pink grooves imprinted onto pale skin, and long lashes flutter,
revealing dozy kyanite sparkling with fond recognition--
unfiltered contentment thriving in the absence of war.
twining a finger made calloused from axes around
ribboned pine, viridescent under the waning candlelight.
An aroma curls in the air--
burning wax, yellowed parchment, cold angelica;
the charming aftermath of coalesced concentration.
He traces along a cheek pressed into a book, small
pink grooves imprinted onto pale skin, and long lashes flutter,
revealing dozy kyanite sparkling with fond recognition--
unfiltered contentment thriving in the absence of war.
Kiwi is a sleepy librarian who has a penchant for reciting their writing and musings to their cat, George Michael.
