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If I were Palaeolithic, I would paint your name on sacred stones with ochre and ash.
Tell me about her?
I can’t. Too much to be known.
My mother had been dead just a week when a moth flew into my room.
The egg waxes, the yellow white
of moon marrow, of stretched skin,
opaque with the dull stain of life blood speckling
the outer shell, enveloping the hard white.
You catch a faint whiff of blood while selecting durians for the buffet. You smell it, despite the fusion of sweat, lubricant and the sandal-bottom aroma of durian fresh from the tree.