Poetry: Balloon

Words by Vanessa Page

Pictures by Chris Somerville

Published on November 12, 2014

The blue marble of mother’s milk
is a roadmap to your half-filled tomb

— an absent bloodline, orphaned
on the vast embrace of your chest

you are awake inside your sleep
curled small among the sheets; still

luminous — somewhere under your
flatline and all the visible bruises

and this sudden ferocity that fills
our shared emptiness, has teeth and

muscle, it strikes out lost intentions
— silences the death of black swans

tonight, there is something sacred
about the contours of your body:

the wishbone glow of your ankles
in the moon’s bathwater,

the velvet ripple of your abdomen,
as your tide carries away the last boat

nothing is as shapeless as this night
or the ones that will follow it

in the early morning light,
I will still be here: picking through

tired chrysanthemum heads —
wiping the milky way from your skin