issue four / panacea
Space Between Two Bodies as a Variable
Nour Berkane
Let us have at space if we must;
we’ll puncture its skin like amateur killers,
pick out rust from telephones
in comatose, and dial our old song.
We–one and two–
marble clink warbling in pockets;
anastomosed houses
spitting aliveness back and forth.
I–a forefronted pawn–
swing oblique, sweating
in the crowded confines
of this checkered town.
My girl will flock
to the next of cities,
fashion up a hatch
of habits foreign and unafraid.
I’ll sit hammered and dainty;
entryway table
despairing
at the foyer of pubescence.
I’ll be by the door
with the boots and the dogs,
with space a two-way road
scraping roofs from where I stand.
Promises buried will spring
like a brain dead frolicking flower;
pollenless temptress, exterminated
when plucked from its soil.
‘Suppose your luggage held you
to the occasion.
‘Suppose your roots grew trunks
of brown and yellowish departure.
Let us have at space if we must;
we’ll crunch at its ribs
until hollowness knows an end,
where we meet as kids again.
Bubblegum sculpting ballrooms
under desks, bygone graffiti walls,
and passing cigarettes
in cobwebbed school halls.
we’ll puncture its skin like amateur killers,
pick out rust from telephones
in comatose, and dial our old song.
We–one and two–
marble clink warbling in pockets;
anastomosed houses
spitting aliveness back and forth.
I–a forefronted pawn–
swing oblique, sweating
in the crowded confines
of this checkered town.
My girl will flock
to the next of cities,
fashion up a hatch
of habits foreign and unafraid.
I’ll sit hammered and dainty;
entryway table
despairing
at the foyer of pubescence.
I’ll be by the door
with the boots and the dogs,
with space a two-way road
scraping roofs from where I stand.
Promises buried will spring
like a brain dead frolicking flower;
pollenless temptress, exterminated
when plucked from its soil.
‘Suppose your luggage held you
to the occasion.
‘Suppose your roots grew trunks
of brown and yellowish departure.
Let us have at space if we must;
we’ll crunch at its ribs
until hollowness knows an end,
where we meet as kids again.
Bubblegum sculpting ballrooms
under desks, bygone graffiti walls,
and passing cigarettes
in cobwebbed school halls.
Nour Berkane (she/her) is a 20 year old writer and medical student from Algeria. Her work has been published in the BTL anthology in 2020 as well as AsterLit magazine. Outside of writing, Nour can be found twisting her hands in yarn in the company of her cat, or occasionally swallowed up in her mind.