France, Muriel Cuissard, Poetry

TONIGHT by Muriel Cuissard

Tonight is heartache and black teeth like charcoal wrapped pearls.

It’s hollow heartspace and empty hands, like hands / that once held branches of flowers / but dropped them / on the way home.

It’s a kid crying outside the window, as if he was the siren from within, warnings going on / and / off in the 3rd of September’s night sky.

It’s the stars that you could see if you lifted your head up, one hand on your neck, counting your blessings as you try to forget / about the lost flowers.

Tonight is a blizzard in the tummy with white foam from the sea, it’s the mermaid that ran away from the blue sky to marry the twilight ground.

It’s this hollow feeling as if some bird carved a mess into your chest, wanted to live there but decided it wasn’t exactly ‘it’ and left the house empty.

It’s the pastel pink shade that shame carries on her back, the sandy texture of wanting to be seen but staying invisible / and the band aid that never sticks to your skin when you need it to.

It’s blood on your hand when you realise it’s that time of the month / again / and it’s the one more pair of knickers that will carry your stain.

It’s yoga for self love and crying for the 10 first minutes not knowing why, it’s cold water running through your hairline, the small puddle of your floating water lying on the floor and it’s feeling home without feeling safe or like you belong to it.

It is a soft bronze breeze touching your cheeks in all the ways you needed, and hairs lifting from your skin to embrace the race of the wind’s caress.

It is finding support where you struggle to find comfort.

Tonight is the landing of a jaguar after it leaps and flies and lands / all muscles dancing under his gleaming coat.

And tonight is also the little fly that sees everything with a buzzing glance, pieces of the million sky / reflecting on her shattered mirrors eyes.


Muriel is French but English-speaking at heart. She lives in Berlin and is very much a words nerd.

Photo: Work in progress, Miles Johnston