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.
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