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Poetry by Alison Daniel


The Practice of Self-Mutilation

The bath water could have been rose water
or some exotic ingredient as rare as the evening
before summer bled wisteria petals and jasmine
scented air into the house that felt like home
when you played spin the bottle on the lacquered
floor, when you drank enough to strip your cotton
t-shirt and all I smelt was freshly soaped skin
mingling where my fingers met the contour of
muscles packed tighter than the way you grinned,
already aware of 100 different strategies
a cut could meet. Your abdomen was scarred
like a faraway look trapped in constellations
from another galaxy.



About the Author

I live an isolated yet relatively content life in Tasmania, Australia. I'm hoping someone will let me out soon but in the meantime I've shacked up with Unlikable Steve, an ex-stripper who unfortunately lost his g-string but all the other equipment is fine.

My work has been published in these zines: Conspire, Stirring, The Hive, OutsiderInk, Recursive Angels, Clean Sheets, Opium Magazine, Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), Mentress Moon and many others.