Lyric

When you kiss a shape onto my skin

it escapes into the air like a bird. 

It’s lyrical, moves with swan-

like grace and means something,

to be discovered. The motorway whispers

next to us, bright wet river. We hear,

sometimes, phone calls taken in passing

cars. They are so loud they could be

inside of us. The darkness is full of

little shapes, moving and breathing like

the after-shocks of bright flashes

of light. The room is full of birds.

We can hear phones ringing, inside.

We can almost understand what they

are saying to each other.

Volt 

My darling. Where were you

when I was a girl? In each hand

a fillet of fish, finding balance

between killing and living, sleeping

in my green-drenched room

dreaming crown jewels and what

words I would say in heaven if

I ever met you again. In my pocket

there is a drawing of the country all

wonky, a sewing needle through

my thumb. My life has been

so many happy accidents. How

many spikes can I draw around

the sun? How green can a girl

get? My sister’s milk teeth

around a ring of ice. My face

in the pelt of that old dog

you washed once, wondering

if I could find you there. Will

you clean the salt from my hands?

How many ways can I move

around this window and still

you can’t see me? Your eyes

unseeing, mine focused

on the blade, slicing gill to fin. If

I looked up with my hands all

dirty would you know it was

your little girl?

Maia Armistead is a poet and student originally from Hamilton. She has been published in such places as Starling, Mayhem, Sweet Mammalian, a fine line and The Spinoff. She is one of the founding editors of Symposia Magazine.