Unstrung

Petra Whiteley


I have no
recollections
of how the air thickened
in all these years,

how it suffocates...

numb shot electrodes,
wires in hell.

Graves sticking
into mind peeling
skin infections -
the toothpicks
of deathly boredom -
acupuncture to unheal
and lock.

Closing doors,
whispers that mock
emerge from curved lines
of strange breathing
larvae of people.

I am restored
in short footfall
of silence, it is
absence that cuts
small pieces of me.

This ice of frozen
red silky stream,
it is such rage.
Violent.

It warms up,
enigmatic
from the deep,
paces the steps
onward, seaward.

Fast.

I carry the bruised child
home.
Resisting. Fists
in the swollen heart.

Is it a boy, is it a girl?

Shouting in my face,
incredulous.
Skinny she-he creeps
through the tunnels
of my restless eyes,
industrious. Its
barren truth crawls
through jammed up teeth.

It'll do us part.

For now, it is settling
down,
slowly wintering.
I am waiting, unstrung.