1.after Plath: Hanging God

1.after Plath: Hanging God short poem

Photo by elsamuko

I could cause a root to bloom
or a bird to plummet in showers
that drenches my pallid skin
a toe or a foot

The uneasiness that pecks me
the dullness that I wear
my skin, is you
The darkness gives birth to a pain
that screws courage
– the courage of colours
casting a livid glow, to scarf up a
sticking eye or a laughing brace

Oh no you are not at it; cannot
be the dream of myriad tongues
that I raise to my lips as a toast
to nothingness, howling like a
scampering wind, the topography
of scars that burn my body

Pain is good, yes scars I admit
are a grape juice blushing at
my throat silences the sienna of words
that canvass you

I could float on your words, lie still
like a gull bracing the cold stiff wind
cringing to propel its body forward
a monster chaffing and grinding. I
rise to the smell of awkwardness
that bayonets the invalid air between us
pure and clean as a baby’s skin
innocent as it breathes, mapping the blue veins
underneath the olive skin supine like
a thousand year old banyan tree
housing infinite travelogues of
life and death, of dream and despair
of tales of curios stashed away
in an old China Shop.

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Keith Wilson



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