From the window I see them;
desperate anorexics, unmistakable
strips of winter –
they are always in my eyesight,
always vivid when my hours lean
me to the hollowed out corners of my imagination.
Pure, white, dead –
these limitations of a day
set on a page; the rat of boredom,
or the inconsolable child
who shows nothing of being nurtured,
save for my ringing hands -
my inexperience, maternally.
Why do you comfort me
with starvation? If I could exhibit
some foreign exotic, some rub of colour
through my English heart,
would there be a purpose
to an otherwise sluggish pulse?
I am immune, I say
to the cold, I am immune –
my fingers like broken chess pieces,
my knuckles; bird skulls cracked
by those spent women
I see from the fields outside the window.
I have a desk, I have a solid place,
I cry, to the whirring air conditioning.
These hours do not shift
but I, I do –
hurried nerve spat thoughts;
countries evacuated, my wandered
knot of hunger.
There is nothing to do Ladies,
nothing to do
but to fatten yourself up;
the spring will be here soon.