Synaesthete – Suzannah Evans

 

Synaesthete
 
Sometimes he’s surprised by fried crab
in the middle of a phone call
 
and syllables can string themselves
around his jaw, stick his teeth like toffee.

When he speaks fear, it’s crackers
dusting his tongue.
 
Sadness is an egg
hard-boiled in his swallowing mouth.
 
Love is steak, blue and bloody, something
he sharpens his knife for.