Ashley-Elizabeth Best | Two Poems


These Lovers


Fresh out of easy gestures without a curve
to camouflage my bones, we fell to a
common ruin.

Put up or shut up, he said, and then told me
to, start making the right moves in the right

We wrestle at the limits of forgiveness, always
more to say that’s not worth the saying. Miracles
are the currency of conversion.

Sin takes purchase on good people bearing
the word of a woman in dishonour. Was my body
adequate to the bloodshed? The camera rolls.
This is for keeps.


We Live Together, We Torture Each Other


The bad touch holy ghost crawls into bed with me.

I know where he plans my burying, how he wants
to blind himself with the hooks of my bra. I hope
to say plainly this is my desire too and absolve his

squint in laughter. My want is a smoothed rib of wood
progressing to shore, some farewell thing.