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Friday, 5 July 2013

Gillian Prew

The Sky Will Pour Open
Ten more summers of rain, they say.              A defeat –
a downing.                  Dust eyelids dog roses –
the bees will come, their legs pollen-painted.
A roaring curtain where the sun should be                 -  the birds,
quiet and stuck,
in its up-ruin.
everything. Why not?
The sky will pour open some days.

Plath Likes My Poems
Around the Nothing, among the Grave –
fixed, like old bone, a yellow stain. A wound, a wire womb.
Winter breasts.
Plath likes my poems. Her blood hurts. Her death reeks –
she approves of my ruins.

Buy her latest book, Throats Full of Graves from Lapwing Publications

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