There’s a black scarf obscuring his mouth.
The smell of petrol
and the haze on the asphalt
and the broken shards of gravel in your palms melt
into a hot-summer second.
And you can’t feel the blood in your head
but you know it’s there. It’s in
the way he looks at you.
Like everything about you is broken
open, and your body is pouring secrets
two decades old

Decades old; you’re a king, fuck
anomie and inferiority.
The new country smells of history
and fear and something rich; nectar or promise.
Road for miles, space, grey constantly remembered
to be forgotten a few yards down
there’s a secret.
A moving body with black hands.
The boy with the wolf
around his eyes. Teeth
too tight, too broken

to break against your skin.
But that comes later, months away. For now,
there’s just a black scarf, a promise
in his eyes, I’ll get inside you.
Hurtle through your entity
like a hurricane, I’m sorry.
But that’s months away.
He’s speaking a language you don’t yet know,
vowels long as the road, long
as the beats of your pulse.
The contrast to the crash.

The crash.
                  In the middle of the day
no one can hear you scream.

The backdrop to the scene, burnt black, sun
in the sky.
                  The perfect setting for him
to come, all warped metal feet away

crossing the white line.
White for distance, white
for impact, white for skin
before it is torn open.

His bike catches at yours like a child
grasping for sweets,
                Rocks in your palms. Biting
sugar and tar.

He’ll catch up to you some day,
but now he has you on the floor.
Oil. Blood. Water. The thickest
is the one on your hands
signalling ties short-severed,
burning with loss.
Someday the pain will come.
Someday we’ll get over the initial shock of it,
but for now, stepping out of
the black won’t do much

But for now, stepping into time
won’t put your bike back together.

– Exposition, Eve A.


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