Raw Stomach for Break Fast

How can a picture make you feel
he asks me,
shimmering pixels at the corners of a mouth
set in a searching line.
There’s something in my eye
I say, rubbing furiously.
There’s something wrong with my stomach;
I shat three times today,
and nothing came out,
only food, weak from digestion.

In my plastic chair by the window
I am ready for anything
but nothing comes.
Lying between him and the wall
I am ready for nothing
and everything comes
pouring from his eyes and his throat
and from between his legs.
Wiping my face delicately,
I kiss him goodnight,
and roll over.

The colours in his mind,
the ones that I can see,
make me sick with hope;
my frail premature heart
shivers at the thought.

Du verstehst mich falsch,
he says.

So I turn to the page,
with its beguiling shades of blue
and focus instead
on that dull vibration in my pants.

You’ve got me wrong,
I say.

He stared at me for weeks,
waiting for me to say something else,
but my lips were sealed
like a tomb.

by Philip Soliman