Hidden Palms, Emily Fedoruk
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Hidden Palms, Emily Fedoruk

 

 

At some point I shrouded the palm, a loose bag with pointless piercings and put it where the hall becomes a wardrobe, drawing lines in storage. I mixed the dust of the outside of the studio with duty, a palate of greys while shards of sharp greens fell. Swept them up.

 

Is it an emotional problem or even worth writing when having stared too long at one dead thing, sensational dynamics of staring up between blades of grass or seeing the loose spaces among lines of glass perfumes personally slips subject sideways?

 

I pull the pronoun back. Circle the perimeter, T’s broom emotion. At another crossroads, another T told me to touch a palm is to kill it, any affection an end, and in this, my palms had been basically clapping. About that life. Heavy handed metaphors tied.

 

Back before he died, any of these brushes might have otherwise stimulated something, some scene where books don’t bring you, in what context of which oily commodity, leaves, like skin, can too be blushed dry. She slipped into the pool. Really slipped.

 

Brittle watery rude boy repotted dirt under acrylic nails loosened the roots, which rhythm and what work became a hand job done, a weird sudden jet of water, an image shifts, a relationship in solids and liquids. I’ve been digging. I’ve been digging. I get filthy when I look. Why can’t I keep my fingers off you.

 

Why watermelon couldn’t have been an inter-kingdom thing, so we buried our safewords and backed up all of that mouth. Watch the throne.

 

So many months, the first thing I see when I, so long potted mouths and gone wins go.