grotto by Leah Duarte
52 lines
Issue 9 (Winter 2025)
when i climb out of
the pond in the grotto
behind the nuns’ house
you laugh and pluck the
leaves out of my hair
i spit algae and mosquito
larvae and tell you there’s
something on the other side
we walk back through the open
fields so the sun can dry me
i pour water and squirming things
out of my shoes and you
squash them underfoot laughing
our steps gut-slippery
you make me promise not
to go again without you
but i will, so the last time
you’ll see me you’ll see a
lie in my mouth
my tongue devoured
by a parasite that takes
its place and laughs at
you
knee socks on the grass
ants crawling over the toes
mary watches from her place
of honour staring straight ahead
so i don’t have to
explain myself but i squeeze her
cold white hand once
like i squeezed the blood
out of yours when you
pulled me onto your roof
the ground spinning
you laughing and trying
to untangle our hands but
i wouldn’t let you
the sun spins in the water
blue and purple and green
the colours bleed up my bare legs
the water pushes back before
it pops
a blister on
an old wet tongue
and i don’t have your
hand to hold on to.
i blow bubbles as it
pulls me down
hands around my
ankles
tap my heels against
the teeth
