What sunrise has come
to greet the day with a mouthful of blood?
By night, three old crones sat at their loom,
weaving the clouds blood-orange, passing
an eye between them.
Now immune, I am no longer afraid of
the inconstant spindle. I prick my finger
on the axle of fate. Draw blood.
Rotten fruit flowers from these stigmata.
In and out, in and out, the needle whips
the red thread through this useless cloth.
The four velvet chambers will not give it up.
The moon gleams in dolorous waves,
lulling the sea to sleep in the still muted
tide of night. Everything is quiet, slipping
into darkness, stupefied by dreams. Everything
spilling towards daybreak. Hush, hush. Listen
to the murmur of mice in their midnight beds,
the berceuse of night-blooming flowers, craning
towards the celestial. Listen to the hymns of
dark woods, the siren song of the salt sea, rippling
lyrics of love to mermaids. Now the owl puts forth
his question, which is answered by shadow
and a kind of gravity made possible
only by starlight.
Blood flows out of these eyes,
blooming with yolk, the irises black.
Why do these hellish mouths open to me?
As if to scream death. Red skirts round
a waist of death. Do not weep your
heroin tears for me. Already I am
sick with the milk-white sap of life. In a
field of chrysanthemums and violets your words
are poison. The cornflower sky breathes in
your fumes. Are you not ashamed?
Close your mouths. Don’t sit there
gaping like fresh wounds.
When the thrushes sing,
I will return again to my
The body is possible in spring
No need to coop up inside oneself like a Russian doll
No need to pleat the skin, no need to bury oneself
under the earth, no need to rush headlong out of
winds and chills, into rooms where people babble
and pass infection
The tulip stems are an umbilical cord, rooting
me to the great mother. Red to deep brown,
the blood rooted in the body of us all
The optimist in me is reborn in ether
and shades of unblemished blue
Deliver me into this becoming –
into this earth, into this awakening
I want to be reborn from a dust storm of pollen
April my renaissance, my rebirth and resurrection
A column of pure fire, I will wade into a field
of amaranth, bearing armfuls of sunshine,
my hair unbound
Along the vale, crocuses are opening
I am ready to bear fruit
I am a filament of white-hot pain,
the slightest tremor an earthquake
All night I lie in agony, dreaming of morning,
but the red-limbed dawn will not come quietly
spring is a wound – it
opens into the margin
between skin and soul