Poetry: Taylor Sumner


Waking to the moon. Alive on the the moon. I’ve never seen the grass. My sun association is the warmth of your skin as you inhale, exhale, in a blue white glow. Clean. Awake and resting. Something which tastes like oranges. Silent like falling snow. With my child hands, holding my clothes. With my child eyes, never quite seeing, seen within your gaze. Something like a green dusk. I laugh out fresh water while honey leaks from your eyes. With our own feet. Something like a dance. A sound like joy. It is morning, and you inhale against my shoulder.

Stone Fruit, Bloodmagic

Mindful and skilled, queasy taking fig after peach. Reach -

As far as I’m concerned, knowing not where my skin comes from

or my eyes, or my teeth. Whiteness is an empty bowl. Scoured.

In an animal body, I feel cheated if not woken by the sun. Millennium of evolution groan (I can hear them) when an alarm sounds and I roll myself

up and over

too sore for the years on my body.

Cooking plums give blood - theirs for mine, in the 21st century everything has been said and I find sacrificial ritual where it fits into my workweek.

Taylor Sumner Instagram: @trsumner