cherry lips on the edge of wartime

cherry lips on the edge of wartime - a collection of poems

---

1. ‘And she remembered that his head had rested on her bosom, and how heartily she had kissed him; but he knew nothing of all this, and could not even dream of her.’ (Hans Christian Andersen, The Little Mermaid)

i emerged from Triton’s fountain — plummeting headfirst

into your cerulean eyes, another world, oceans crashing —

dripping the glittering ichor of the gods

onto the crumbling cement

as he whispered poisonous tales; of

the mortal blood flushing your cheeks,

the holy ghost weaved into

the breath parting your rosy lips.

three and a half years later, in

a tea room decorated with swallows — when

your lower lip split open

right down the middle, crimson on a porcelain rim —

the poison came to fruition, for your lips

would bleed, smiling for my sake.

2. ‘“I know what you want,” said the sea witch; “it is very stupid of you, but you shall have your way, and it will bring you to sorrow, my pretty princess.”’ (Hans Christian Andersen, The Little Mermaid)

what an ambrosial love, unfolded there beneath our

mighty onlooker, indomitable Triton —

whose words of celestial caution

glinted from rust-choked cavities, blood-red —

forced to bear witness to the crime

of watching yet another of his royal daughters

surface, from the bliss of bestowed waters,

stark and voiceless for a mortal man.

3. ‘Her tender feet felt as if cut with sharp knives, but she cared not for it; a sharper pang had pierced through her heart.’ (Hans Christian Andersen, The Little Mermaid)

for one and a half years after today

you stumble through nightfall, smoke and rubble,

dented helmet swinging from your sagging belt,

battered compass in hand; on ash-anointed maps

you navigate points cardinal as the sin

that last supper where we soared close to the sun;

you threw yourself to the rushing winds of fate — flushed lips bitten bloody,

your fist in my hair as you plunged in

and, for me, cleaved your mortal soul in half.

4. ‘She cast one more lingering, half-fainting glance at the prince, and then threw herself from the ship into the sea, and thought her body was dissolving into foam.’ (Hans Christian Andersen, The Little Mermaid)

lush emerald grass underfoot,

unsullied Meissen porcelain clutched under the arm;

once upon a glowing summer’s day,

we treaded across sun-dappled grass

onto battered grey cement,

the imposing fountain rusted green

with envy for the life we should have had,

for the eternity we could have wasted away

strolling amidst the wildflowers

under an impressionist sunrise. now

in the smoke of separation and sorrow

we double back our route, troop back to

fields of blooming anemones

reduced now to barren meadows;

we march conditioned steps.

all roads hark back to the cracked cursed cement

and the gleaming fountain waters i

pull myself away from, feigning blindness

to your blue eyes and the

sanguine blush of sunrise on its horizon —

just beyond our fingertips.