LUCY ORBELL

 

Shedding

 
When we first started seeing each other – naked – it was as simple as opening my door. 
I opened my door and you slipped through. You took your hand, placed it on the frame, 
turned your body thin-ways, let your nose carve through. The wooden floors were 
surprised: another pair of shoes. Your shirt came off, landed casually, comfortably, at 
home on my washing basket. Then your hand was on your belt; unclicked, it fell slack. 
Unbuttoned, your jeans went. Then there were boxer shorts, tightly checked ones. 
I pulled the curtains; the cabbage tree had caught us. I hope it didn’t see your penis. 
But how could it not? Your penis was everywhere; a tall pink beacon in my room. 
 

Fountain

 
Oh good God, look at all that coming out her mouth. Why, it’s a river. Stand back; don’t 
let your shoes get wet. Watch out for those fish jerking on the floor. Don’t look at their 
eyes. She was just talking, saying how she didn’t understand prose, when the dribble 
started, like she had too much saliva and couldn’t keep it back. The table was the first to 
take a hit; even paper napkins couldn’t stop it spreading, rolling down the metal legs. 
And then more: a few fast flushes. Her whole body would shake with the rushing. 
Though now that it’s continuous – this almighty flow – she stands there looking at us, 
turning her mouth to us, like a performance for us to stare. Like it’s normal to cry this 
fear. 
 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lucy Orbell has just finished an MA in Creative Writing at Victoria University. She lives in Wellington where she writes poetry and is a sometimes broadcaster. On Monday the 20th of November she had pink peonies on her windowsill.

 

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