Seawall There is no crispness to the burn the micro cuts from yesterday...

Alyssia MacAlister

There is no crispness to the burn the micro cuts from yesterday which continue to split to
exhale in the heat in screams from tiny mouths on shoulders that weep and become silent and
suffocate in balm in aloe vera as it is no burden just blisters so I press on with the wade the
pursuit of sensation that cannot be found on land where at any other time the sand strip would
be clot-heavy with fat and puff and screech at a splash where at night hash brownies are fed
by campfire light to not-quite-yet lovers but this will do the job I undertake gets me elbow
deep in the toilet bowl and then ten minutes later the same hands smooth creases out of bed
covers the same as the ones you unwrapped yourself from at the point of

Sensation that cannot be found on land where at any other time the sand strip is alive but I did
not sleep so came down to chest height with my back against the seawall is the best place to
rest with open eyes and as the sun rises the colours of the sky and water invert themselves so
light and tide push with hypnotic repeat to agitate the swell in my chest and squeeze the lump
up which began as a seed in the lung yesterday when the landlady asked me to strip the bed
once you were taken I could not breathe as I had seen your rigid outstretched arms with
fingers which gripped nothing the purpling of your undersides and how somehow you had
managed to cover yourself with a cushion as if you knew in time I would find

With hypnotic repeat I could not step back into the building or any building so trod blisters
into chapped heels along hot cobbles to the seawall and back and again until the landlady
shut the front door on me and you and everyone who beady-eyed the body-bag and heard the
ambulance doors slam no siren on their way to the sand strip is still empty as your glass will
remain behind the bar the bed too fresh and smoothed by my hands later when I leave this
seawall for work this seawall rubs the skin from my burn and kisses salt in as the lung seed
comes to fruition from behind my teeth and bursts a sound nothing like a scream but a roar
and I am sure you heard


Alyssia MacAlister was born in Scotland. She is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Durham University and writes poetry, prose poems and short stories.


Éphémère is a concept; two visions of the same sphere. Both are multidisciplinary Mauritian artists—designers and illustrators—influenced by nature and culture. They attempt to convey a part of their dream-like, somewhat playful world through their art and products. (Photo credits: Céliliphotographies)

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