Your lungs fill & spread themselves,
wings of pink blood, and your bones
empty themselves and become hollow.
When you breathe in you’ll lift like a balloon
and your heart is light too & huge,
beating with pure joy, pure helium.
The sun’s white winds blow through you,
there’s nothing above you,
you see the earth now as an oval jewel,
radiant & seablue with love.
It’s only in dreams you can do this.
Waking, your heart is a shaken fist,
a fine dust clogs the air you breathe in;
the sun’s a hot copper weight pressing straight
down on the think pink rind of your skull.
It’s always the moment just before gunshot.
You try & try to rise but you cannot.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Flying Inside Your Own Body by Margaret Atwood
Labels:
Chee Kam,
Margaret Atwood,
Modern Poetry,
Reflection,
self-reflexivity,
woman
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment