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Georgina Banfield
From the fraying edge

Letters beneath vows of the 'has been'
displace happy eternal with a distant other
hums of 'I' tighten his suit and tie
hums clamp truth shut at his jaw.

To talk is a senseless commodity
pretence in a silent world climax
fantasy that crave pleasure of reason
heard in denial as night gets under skin
piercing both lungs and the heart.

Preserving guilt tattered arrangements
makes hands tremble and ink stain bruises
raw. Delicate strokes of plurality rips tongues
that part one day repentant to swallow the next
dry out in blood-soaked 'yous' that eventually end

when a lover cries 'I accuse'
and another unscrews contours to freedom





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