Isobelle Masters
Our first meeting was delayed,
you on the bed and I in you. Sticky
red and hot breath and all the beautiful horror
that comes with giving life.
Like a watermelon on a summer day, engorged and plump, they
slice you open and there I was, wailing and lilac
like a sentient raisin, reaching out for Heaven.
Carted away, small and too early, to the imitation of your stomach.
You sat in that bed and I sat in mine
and for four weeks I stayed in that imitation,
small and sleepy.
Little galactic pods, all lined up,
pulsating like amphibian eggs and it is funny, you think,
how I came so early and yet, here you are
standing, waiting, resting your fingers on the glass instead of me.
We call on the phone, one cellular device to the other, a shared glitchy camera, the same nose,
a mutual reflection. Events and stories leave
my lips, so much like yours, and it is all you
can do
not to lauch when I rush to hang up the call. Hair half brushed, rings in pockets,
eyeliner in my bag.
Always late for something.
Isobelle Masters is a creative from Tāmaki Makaurau, now in Te Whanganui a Tara. She is of Ngāi Tahu/Kāi Tahu and Scottish (Albannach) descent. She obtained her Bachelor of Communications and double-major Bachelor of Arts with Honours from Te Herenga Waka Victoria University of Wellington. She enjoys writing about queerness, feminism, and indigeneity, doing oil painting, and utilising other mediums to let her creativity bleed into daily life.