harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
"to the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream." -- sylvia plath
*
i say, i sob the body electric when the sky's grown dark like this. (i) just want someone (anyone, please) to kiss my tortured head on that bench in the park, long, far away in the dark, somewhere in the city where we maybe were once ago.
come back to me (i) come back to me again
and i'll hide in a hollowed tree with branches soaking in silence, my fruit rotting under my solemn, soiled feet.
worms will gather under my nails and between my toes and i shan't care when those webs fill my mouth and dust my lips; frozen to part forever (and ever) in shock at the injustice that they all did their baby love.
oh i say, it was no sweet sapling taking root in the snow, milky and blue as the days of you, oh so blue and born for another (what was i with no one to call my own?)
and pray, will the poplars take my bruised face to look away -- purple as falling figs, might i sway my head (with you), heavy with mistletoe, (which never saw a kiss) forgotten high up above the air and snow.
pray, might the weeping willow gather up my bones in green gaping arms, so that our sobs are silence and rocks and stones; they take me from those swooping eyes that would lie to a crying child to soothe her sore, sounding mouth --
and perhaps the oak's boughs will take my eyes to look inward -- to hide away, hide from the world that's lost all its colour (i don't want to see it anymore) i don't care to see it at all.
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