Gillian Prew-

March Morning

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.

Leaving April

Woman, willow-stooped and worm-wed,

her voice spilt shadow,

leaving April in soured knots and velvet.

Sad-burst, her bluebell breasts           they fade

forgetting

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/