Out of winter, grief-dusted and new sun,
March morning tears hyacinths from the sky.
I rise, bright-boned and rotted bud,
sick of myself, of love, of blood. I rub
red writing onto my skin. I am not dead
just numb and a fist, a balcony’s edge
where the bride waves thin,
all sugar and shut-off shadows.
Woman, willow-stooped and worm-wed,
her voice spilt shadow,
leaving April in soured knots and velvet.
Sad-burst, her bluebell breasts they fade
her silence and her song. Too pink,
her buds for blooming too late
to die. Farewell,
her dumb sun on a child wind,
the rising of dusty muscle
her dry water luminous with bones.
Gillian Prew can also be found here: http://gillianprew.com/