october

the silent murder of orange

pierced skin, punctured head,

embalmed organs

it was the mummification of

squash on a floor of newspaper

alive with words

the wine glasses were finger- and

lip-printed, ringing with

the echolocation of our words

and laughter

van gogh sat on the couch, painting

the starry night into a

carrot-coloured landscape

the flower child made her pumpkin a

mirror and carved her soul into it

the freckled one looked

casually belonging in our museum

of orange

we had long since left the

dusty streets of the city of peace,

but one thing remained with us:

the small, domestic camel on the box

that spoke half in Hebrew, half in Arabic

we wanted Jerusalem in our lungs again

“I’m scared that I’ll choke,”

said van gogh

“oh please, you’re Dutch, you’re

practically born with smoke

in the lungs,”

the freckles piped in

there were no coughs,

just laughter

the smoke rose from the

candles in our throats

trails chasing each other in the

midnight air, only to sit slowly into the fog

like clumsy limbs into a chair

and our pumpkins sat inside,

with death in their teeth

and fire in their lungs,

while we did the same
outside