A new poem by Anny Trolove.

As Fuck

The man who wouldn’t sleep with me
is making other girls come.

Summer weather, I have so much energy I have to
throw myself away from myself.

I wade into the lagoon, gather seaweed. I rake
green ghosts into my hand. Above the water, they’re
barely anything.

The man whose kid daughter knows the meaning
of coppicing!!—a trench sinks me to
my waist—is making other girls come.

I trip on a stone, not sexy; blood on my toe, ouch, sexy.
Drag a rope of kelp by its stipe, thick as a man’s arm.

I rake where the rot is bubbling. Putrefying. So much life
in the dead! I gather hanks and squeeze out the seawater, drop clots
of living death in a plastic bag.

The thug who has standards is making other girls come.
I climb the hill smiling, holding the bag of rot like
medical waste, the kelp trailing.

The sparrow who offered I wear his sandals when
mine      fell apart           is making other girls
initiate counselling.
We learn so much about each other so quickly.

Home. On my jandals, red sand. I hose my feet.
I go for an axe to break up the kelp,
Godspeed its becoming life-sustaining.

Ready is the board, the leathery kelp, the axe.
I wipe my palm and raise the weathered haft.

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