Watching a landslide from Strefi hill

 

The noises, carrying themselves up here with a

backpack of trapped flies and crockery. Sam and I on

 

the verge of a sneeze; unknowing and both a little

fond of the other. Blue railings, evenly spaced inside

 

our ears while vision remains a charming gift. At least

a thousand churches and horses all in one eyeful, the gums

 

of Athens aching and swollen. We can’t see the window of

our hostel from here so read these new books and let

 

silence do the sharing. All things left unsaid places his hat on to

avoid sunburn and politely jumps off the edge, we

 

edge closer together amongst sunflower seed remains. Sun

behind us, silently doing her job. The pleasant fullness of a

 

bladder. After dinner, the holiday will be over, leaving an artist’s palette of crusted memories

in vibrant colours, mostly mixed into

 

brown

but the red left

well alone.

 

 

 

OBJECTS 08/04/24

 

Ashtray. Orange book. Blue mug. In the - the? Sunlight. Yes. Their

soft hands, removed at birth. Do not search for objects inside of me. People with wet morning

hair walk past and do not know. The? Significance. I have witnessed a giant collision on this

table. There is something to be said about subtle generosity of objects. Why don't they just

walk away? Like people? I cannot comprehend. A sunrise does not last all day, it just dries up

leaving an oil slick. A car crash on the?         Road. My objects - unhurt and unfazed. I’ve got

to tell you, how I can spend hours, watching the way these things arrange themselves. Who

can be less self-conscious than the dirty rim of a mug? Tiny breasts of a young girl, growing

under a summer orange tree. And now, my book. One single drop of satisfaction falls

down the thigh of an ashtray. I stand up, empty at the waist  and walk to the hotel, where I fall asleep inside a matchbox. It’s not always over this soon.

 

 

 

A slice of bread in sparta

 

Do you really think so? I am all of those things? A bag

of salted cashews with their jackets on and my steel

 

tin of tobacco. Cross legged in the petrol station after

three long, hard days of marching a foreign city

 

on the edge of a smile. There’s trouble fighting through

the skin of his own front teeth. I wear a neat little dress

 

and climb the 10 hour bus seat to an unknown greek

village, where an old lavender woman cares. Just like

 

kicking white legs in the ocean, unaware of eels and

jellyfish slipping past naked flesh, I fall asleep. It’s quite -

 

darling, really - my heart. Under all that hard bone. Upon

waking, the woman's breakfast table is still warm from

 

milky leftovers of light. It's not like you to leave me so

down and out.

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Blossom Hibbert has a pamphlet, suddenly, it’s now published by Leafe Press. Her work has appeared in places such as The Temz Review, Litter, International Times and Buttonhook Press. She hides inside the wet walls of Jerusalem, drinking Turkish coffee and rising before the dawn. 

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