Essence of a Protracted Wound
Falling from the fade of a burst sun
my bride rides a drowned wind,
honeymoons on the viral grave
where the dumb mouths of the dead,
narrow with nostalgia and lavender lies,
snap in a fragrant rage.
Her liminal love with its dug arms
scoops the red roots of the tight trees
where her best wedding was throttled and laid,
and her lit loss burns in her brain
scorching the slow madhouse of her days.
Poem in June
Sunlight worn child stuck in her stain;
present and poor in the long dust
her heart beats like birds drowned
in the womb’s breath blood.
On the shore of her mind
wind puffs a stiffening tide born
in the levelling loud.
Sweet with despair like a buckling bride
time blooms brief the spell of her skin,
the size of her grief a dwindling wreath
on the sore summer seed of her grave.
Gillian Prew can also be found here: http://gillianprew.com/