I have done it again.
One week in every seven
I ruin it.
Bones in the basin
And the sodden skin
Above it; I roll
On a beaded spine
And stain the fever liquid
With my rust.
The water in the
Curtain's shadow--
Once faucet-sweet--
Now might be the ocean's.
I leave my poppy-petal
Pigment in the tub.
These are my roots
My lashes now.
I may be tarnished silver;
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was scared.
It was an accident.
Now in voluntary
Madness I submerge,
Then, dripping my undoing, stand:
Out of the water
I rise with my wet hair
And only ashes to wear.
original poem here.
photograph by Pennie Naylor.
