Elige una pista para reproducir
I stepped out of my skin at dusk in Connemara
Where bush crickets thrummed like pylons
And the lane smelled of tar and clover
What lay beneath was fragile
Not yet ready for its season
The drizzle made sore music of my nerve endings
I was beautiful to the crows as a butcher's windrow
In the vespers, I was glorious
So raw, I felt each mote
Kites beheld my glowing jellyfish brain
My heart was carmine
Radiant as a saint in a wayside shrine
I raised my arms to the sky
And the air kissed me with its stinging, worshipful mouth
I threw the skin to the wind
Sweet sack I'd tended and punished for thirty-three years
Now moths would make heaven of it
Let them come, I thought
I'm ready
Inside me, you pulsed
Single-celled
Extraordinary