Sheela-Na-Gig
she says
I’m not
open
I’ll love
no one won’t hide
an
overhanging lip
bleeds for
no one
says I,
too, have a beard
taste it
touch me again
out of
body your passion is
medieval
a lonely
glitch superlunary
doorway
a sea snake in the salted ocean
tides of
luminous bliss
faces in
the grass faces in the
pavement
in the ditch the bouquet
in the
ditch my future
thin lines
of sediment
body
forgotten to all but
those who
talk to stone concentric eyes
drift into
a heart broken stone
I love no
one, she says
I’m only
stone
not glitch
nor goddess nor eye
every gaze is turned inward
in a way
isn’t that the way?
the path where my
feet fall on thinking clouds
Beautiful
ice cream
we praise
the ice creams
because they are not
everything
like a pop
song
nothing
means everything
to me
the ice creams
the prune
porridge
the
soft
fruit
beauty
like
flowers
in an eye
socket
pineapple and fleeting
What
the leaves said
turn
into wild
space
freshly
cut
left
perfume of
storm
apple,
herb and turd
straight
on and up
can see
the sea
under
bamboo
sea of
yellow leaves
through
anxious
whispers
like a
packed suitcase
Rowena Newman has published poetry in Popshot Quarterly, Ink Sweat and Tears, Thanks Hun, Sundamaged, Wrongdoing, Glitchwords and other places. She is inspired by folk ballads, paint pots and trees.
No comments:
Post a Comment