Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

The Accuser and The Womb

I am here buried deep, horizontal in silt
of your calls and your crying out loud -
and I saw, by the lick of the moon's shining throw,
a question hook out from your mouth.
It rushed at me quickly, imperative force
springing out like a child's eager legs;
I did nought but clutch at the crest of my womb -
nought but point to the hollowed out space.
My eyes are like ivy, they clutch and they curl
searching for similar fear -
but your features are jigsaws with pieces left out,
with leaping and jittering feet.
I will leave, I will go, I will run from your house
free of the glare of this sun
and rock with my womb - curled asleep in my hand -
empty and useless and grey.