As a side piece to Erin's poem and my painting, I eventually put together a poem of my own. And as usual it took me a few years to complete.
I paint fast but my goodness do I ever write slow.
I don't want Sylvia Plath I
just want my daughter
at peace inside her skin.
I don't want to wait
as the world shifts and shreds, I hang;
when moment staggers into moment
I hang
in an endless, airless fog of dread.
What could I do to make you unheed
those strange stray molecules
that gnaw at your brain
dismantling any sense of hope and safety
till all that remains
is a small brave self
hiding as if there were no tomorrow.
In dreams
my legs are scarred-
lined with pale silver gashes
like those that mark
your body
my heart
my daughter.
Actually she hates Sylvia Plath. And Shakespeare. But like an authentic little disaffected young citizen of the new millenium she's nuts about Bukowski.
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