Dense fog grounds planes and creeps into my periphery
I blink away hope
Adjusting my eyes to the four o'clock gloom where,
I am insubstantial
a mirror ghost.
I examine my sometimes pink flesh through thin, wet paper
Flesh. Not blood.
But still my heart skips
Expecting its red plush
"Go to the water"
The water, where twin lines of bladderwrack
meet on the horizon
and the cadence of the tide
matches the breath of sleep
Here's the smell of blood still
A Rorschach test of crimson and white
It is the shape of broken dreams.
I haunt a red bus
and cross the river,
whispering a private mantra
until I can lift my head
in a smile that permits light-heartedness.
Jacob's ladders illuminate a shimmering pool
On any other day I might take it as a sign.
I have good news. I am pregnant and we have reached the milestone of 13 weeks. These three months have been long, sickly and anxiety ridden, I think it will continue to be that way. I can't quite shake the feeling that something might go wrong. I'm ok with that though, it's to be expected after all that has happened AND there are positives, like the urge to create and the poetry that virtually writes itself.
Line 12: Cut by Sylvia Plath, Line 8
Line 18: V. Macbeth. Scene i