Cabbages by K. Eltinae, from Issue #2


I remember the moment when I knew for sure,
I sat gawking at your knees,
jutting like fists,
twin cabbages,
two stubborn minds made up,
you were counting numbers,
until my tongue slipped into a sea,
of all the things you’d done for me,
the blame washed in and settled
I had used my last chance,
and your words could no longer save me.

I remember your quivering knees,
like the knobs of two doors,
I listened to your moist hands,
Breathe and sweat,
sans regret.

You have two hearts,
who have never come to terms with each other.
They are wrapped in inches and inches of cabbage skin,
they are dangerously polar.
You’ve kept them apart
auctioning each discretely,
but I am secretly afraid for you,
I hear them snap and lock,
snarling, like the kept prisoners they are,
your smile is growing less and less convincing
nothing will save you from the floor.

I stare closely at your knees,
willing their chambers free,
once your last words descend,
I hear each of your hearts explode.
Your expression is a picture,
collapsing like a yielding tent,
the floor beckons to you.

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