As the poet goes up in flames,
the fire sways under the stars,
unfolding its tentacular arms
to hold tight the wooden box,
while, burning inside, embers
ignite the Soul’s cosmic eyes.
In the graveyard, kinfolk wait
with the hollow already dug.
Sad faces with twisted fingers
upturned to the shamed sky.
Dogs bristle with sorrow,
ready for the howl of death.
In a room where silence fell like snow
She pinned the number on her dress
Hours before she jumped
That silent Sunday afternoon
Inches and miles away
From the white chalk farmland
Where a sea of darkness
And steering winds waited
They loved how they had broken her
Made her their own
Once more herding her back
Into the seven-fold flock
Where this liberated sheep
In her post shepherd world
Had once defied the master’s crook
Food was never the problem. Desperately
seeking Self was the real deal, the one that
I kept hidden deep beneath my skeletal frame.
At times I was close to death from all the
gorging and vomiting, yet he never noticed.
You live with someone for sixteen years and
they don’t notice how the secret language
of food eats your heart out, while you play
the weighing game just to get through your
day. Brutal, brutal bulimia with its shallow
heartbeat and ashen skin, sandwiched me
between pain and the shame of it all. I did not
fit – everything fell apart. I was scared then
of getting fat and not feeling safe. Later, much
later I had to face myself and talk through,
rather than eat through Love’s hunger.