Written by Tabalith
Art by Mart Production


Between your toes
you have begun to grow
crocodile eggs,
breaking them with sweat
streaming down your legs

I have a towel between
my hands and other
parting cloths of flesh;
I have a towel
that is too white to
be seen by your eyes

Your eyes’ sea level
is rising; dandruff is
rustling from your hair,
oily like skin
touched far too often
or far too early

In this room,
dimmed by blue light
streaming from your
lungs like paper pumas,
I sit with twisted feet,
clinging to my towel

This popping sound –
is it a crocodile egg
or your bottle of beer?
I don’t turn around –
tonight, I will not
be the one to decide