O Everything Goes Black
by Katie Ford
A pattern on the back of my eyelid coils like a fingerprint, I made
a mistake, it is not my own. The blood up between my eyes, I can’t see,
I sit between people, between pillars of the cathedral between
which the immaculate spreads her blue wing-sleeves into as much sky
as there is. Small blue lights edge the church and the eyeless Christ hangs,
his sockets darkening into shaded tombs. Darkness coiling,
my eyes coiling, a wind with sand in it scrolling up and down
a body, hiding that body until it could be anyone, and is.
Even whom I do not live with I live with now. Don’t say I don’t
speak to you: I speak to you.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment