
(i) Woman, Fragmenting
Out of reach of Bach's Rescue Remedy,
she free-falls
through 2, 1, G
to the basement.
Wifemask says she's fine,
hides behind her Prozac smile,
offers cake and tea, nods and nods.
Wearing her disguise,
she lies
While chemicals scramble signals,
sparks refuse synaptic gaps,
the machine
malfunctions,
cables snap,
she swallows despair,
takes what's on offer
for toxic sorrow,
peels her skin down
to the raw child at the core
of her unhinged matryoshka.
Things can only get worse
if nobody Zolofts her
back to the surface.
She tries to grip
the creature—is it she?—
sinking through air, land, water,
submerging,
seabedding.
(ii) Woman, Defragmenting
She searches for handholds
inside her head, climbs her hair
through a blizzard
on the north slope.
Choking on terrors
of high unguarded places,
she fights the urge
to step off into nothing,
give in to gravity, plunge
through the sea-skin,
then fly, half-cormorant, down
to oblivion's seabed.
Spiralling riptides
draw her under, she rides
an undertow down,
down where dolphins drown,
stars nail the lid
on her sea-coffin.
She floats in darkness, hears
voices call; a bright light
hauls her anchor.
She breathes clearer air, glimpses
a split of sky, blue,
the blue of healing,
of veins unopened,
their steady pulse
the beat
of her twelve-bar
blues
CeramicaAfter Ceramic artworks by Helen Quill |
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