Gillian Prew

The Sky Will Pour Open

 

Ten more summers of rain, they say.              A defeat –

a downing.                  Dust eyelids dog roses –

the bees will come, their legs pollen-painted.

 

A roaring curtain where the sun should be                 -  the birds,

quiet and stuck,

in its up-ruin.

 

            Fly,

everything. Why not?

 

The sky will pour open some days.

Plath Likes My Poems

 

Around the Nothing, among the Grave –

fixed, like old bone, a yellow stain. A wound, a wire womb.

Winter breasts.

 

Plath likes my poems. Her blood hurts. Her death reeks –

she approves of my ruins.

 

Buy her latest book, Throats Full of Graves from Lapwing Publications