by Chelsea Allen

The piano riff you play, mama, twists my insides into grievous knots, but ears pressed to the soft, tickling grass, I am, as ever, immovable. The clouds are from a Monet painting, despite you, so are the water lilies. So am I. But today, in a disparate act, you don’t free me. The riff loops, insatiably, and the colours – we drip. So I tear out the grass. Dig into the earth that’s been housing your notes. They louden. They bring down the sky, burn out my flesh, snake around my bones, crack them. But still I dig. Still, I dig.