Ella got home
from a late shift at Tesco,
she ran a warm bath, set flame to a candle
drank one drop from a bottle
marked blank in the cupboard
then sat on her own
and stared at the carpet.
It washes in slow breaths
like warm tidal waters,
She moves slight and in circles
to a secretive altar
carrying baskets of light
under each arm like pillows
as a token of love
for her unborn granddaughters.
In the sphere beyond dreams
she dissembles reason;
throws down the world
tied up in a watchstrap;
floats without edges,
and laughs at the poison;
planes flush the moon
on a bright silver blanket
while a thick head of mould
eats flesh the kitchen.
There is death in the sky,
moth eggs hatching somewhere.
Warm, bloodless vines bind her
in the cemetary darkness;
cut sharp on her skin like sliding fish,
she chokes on dusk
and spiderwebs.
Shipyard loud electric sounds
brutalise the sky,
animal steam rises to a bell, bubbles the fog
like fungus
something she can't see
opens wider than a mouth an...
Black.
She opens her eyes
to the room.
Still there, though not quite there;
almost looking the same
but the candle she lit has burned to a cinder.
She picks up a match to light another,
it won't strike;
the head faded and soft with bathwater.
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