Wednesday, May 13, 2015

This is a poem about prison


gut me
strew me
in wet strands across the dark beach.
My last breaths come through my ears,
like blood,
like brain.
There is the desperate stillness of celluloid here,
the sky a hung screen.
At last the rain begins
and my eyes run with this black blood -
or tears,
or just mascara.
I turn over and my hips scrape pits in the damp gravel.
I see you in the shadows, a dark shimmer, an unnatural lambency, an occlusion.
Are you coming towards me?
Or are you walking away?

1 comment:

  1. Your best ever, Karen: meaningful and heartfelt. One wonders who is the prisoner, and ... who the jailer?