At first it’s microscopic. A bubble in a bubble
in a stoppered bottle of champagne, it incubates.
in a stoppered bottle of champagne, it incubates.
It carries on a wind of violins, hooks into her finger like
a thorn,
a ward seed chewing through layer after layer of skin.
a ward seed chewing through layer after layer of skin.
Steadily it works itself to the very bone and grows
as fat and white as a blister, harder than a stone.
as fat and white as a blister, harder than a stone.
It ladders her tights and gets infected, snagging hair and
coats
as she brushes up against them on the tube, in restaurants.
as she brushes up against them on the tube, in restaurants.
She keeps her fist in her pocket, learns to shop with
gloves.
She gets verruca acid on prescription and a packet of Elastoplast
She gets verruca acid on prescription and a packet of Elastoplast
which curls in the bath and peels off soggy polos of dead
flesh
to give the parasite a more pronounced appearance.
to give the parasite a more pronounced appearance.
Steadily she grows accustomed to its face. She cleans it
with a cotton-wool bud dipped in liquid nitrogen.
with a cotton-wool bud dipped in liquid nitrogen.
It starts to gleam. And now she looks at it all the time,
twisting her hand this way and that in the sunlight, like a fiancée.
twisting her hand this way and that in the sunlight, like a fiancée.
from Cohabitation,
Seren, 1998
I've filched this off Kate Bingham's website, which is here: http://www.katebingham.com/
I'm very honoured to be reading with Kate at the Torbay Festival of Poetry, on Sunday October 25th, in, er, Torbay.
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