A poem by ZOE BOCQUILLON.
I lay here flat, isolated inside myself, weary
sweet death like a sound cloud embalms me, not sad just heavy I am here and
they are not, electric light and bare walls windows sweat of soft, edible illusions,
my room falls
the tub is empty, black and blue the jackal head god sings
the strident mirror stares: we will be old and grey and deadÂ
But the grass and the flowers and all things forgotten permeate
The river weeps in thick, lavish soiled tears under the dancing trees
plump mushrooms mock me, moss and leaves hurt me more materially
than the sweet family, soaking like scraps of soil in my head, lathering my eyes
my legs are numb stagnant and cold in the heavy wind; the sky smokes small
clouds
twigs and branches collapse as I gather myself up; do the sun the moon the stars
begin afresh?
fruitful islands await me – my broken clock whines poetry is my saviour to you
who listens to these linesÂ
