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Swarm

It is summer and we are still married. Law dictates

that we can pitch a tent wherever we want. Easier

said than done. Light is early morning, all bone. The

straps of a heavy bag leave erotic marks on your

shoulders. Sand dunes grow up sideways, like the

protogay child. We laugh and discuss the non-

arrival of our protégée child instead. Laughing feels

good so we laugh louder. Babies are pointless who

needs them. Around us the midges form a

constellation. I admire their loveless manoeuvres.

LOOK THESE STARS HAVE WINGS you shout

through the turbulence. A couple fly into your

mouth and crawl up your tongue. You swallow with

difficulty. Sex for pleasure is very human but then

again so are choke points. Harnessed chaos is your

thing and we don’t talk about it. A midge bites

behind my ear and injects saliva into my skin. What

each female needs is an abdomen full of blood I

know. Eggs are laid no matter what. Her mouth

parts work as two saws, perforating my skin. I say

THIS REMINDS ME OF YOU and clap the midge

dead. Wind hurls her tiny corpse elsewhere. You

touch your throat and point out the sound of the

ocean. Wave after wave. Things are a little awkward

now. I want to dig a trench in the sand and lie

inside, together. A bodily grammar should, like the

body, be full of holes.


ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTOR

is a writer based in Glasgow. In 2020 they were runner up in the Ivan Juritz Prize. They are interested in the way text holds onto, and releases, the queer body.

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