Crossing back

Petra Whiteley

The air pushed me though and in,
I crossed over the Black Bridge,
here are the trees, mist wrapped,
mythical, here is the river moving
back and forth in ridges of time.
Here is the soft Slavic hum, shop
sings bastardized by Pax Americana.

I am beetle-sized in grassy infusion
of memories, of words falling onto me
from above the cot, piercing me,
dismembering, now I'm to grow new limbs
and to grow indifference to devouring eyes
of mystified men. My being is made of dark
red ether. I will thin and vaporize.

Dog barks with abandonment pains
through papery walls of rabbit-hatch
houses shining in chilly darkness.

My stomach contracts, what it
brings is a recalled taste of disgust.

I am just waiting.
Craving the sweet taste of guillotine
of English, my amputated language,
the monotony of rain, the shit stink
of work. My strange love and my strange
hell, it is my black fire existence.
I touch the days like prayer beads.