A new poem by poet and photographer Mary Macpherson.

Sugar

The first kiss was up against underwater windows – legs flashing,
the curve of bellies, upside-down faces, the press of lips
strange as sponges. I toppled into a lake of surprise – my long hair,
mouth, vulva, clit spiraled down. Fine sugar coated my mouth
little grains of shame like I’d stuffed myself with sweetness
then walked around dirty. Lick or wipe I didn’t know. I’d stick
to anyone who touched, uncertain about how to disentangle or be dis-
entangled from. I was open-mouthed as a flower above asphalt.
I missed lessons on icing sugar kisses (administered by tall people)

but at night the scent of jasmine – pink-throated stars inside bush –
floated into a rented room I shared with a young husband. It came
down the bank, across damp long grass and cracked concrete.
White flowers swelled the darkness. I floated up, breathing in
on the way out.

The Friday Poem is edited by Chris Tse. Submissions are now being accepted until 30 September 2023. Please send no more than three poems in a Word document to chris@christse.co.nz.