Always in my back room.
Swinging landscape painting,
this woollen, curlsome mass.
Caught in the seams of a shadow or stencil
it’s him, the familiar place.
I would burst past handwriting,
be wrapped in voice and eyes, but
flotsam, sharp stones. A dam.
My head gongs metal, and spins
dizzily away. I have rehearsed this
for five years, killing myself
very slowly. My body
would mature but its new growths
as I ram and ram against him,
through every second’s pore,
while he smiles at the wall like a buddha
backlighting the studio of my mind.
If he was a god, I could believe in him.
poem by Phoebe Power; published online with permission of the author