Monday, June 7, 2010

Travelling to my Mother's Birthday

travelling to my mother’s birthday


Foreign, like a stone in the womb,
these dissident eyes upon me
deliberate as rain. Under them I
fall out of favour with time. It passes
sullen like a knotted wig. I comb,

comb among the resolute gravity, among
the strands of shadow. Everything is
below, like hell. I am littler than a child: how
old can I grow? Softer

were the days in sun when amber
lenses stood time still and all was safe
inside my head. The spaces seemed
like magic. I made the spaces mine.

Today I have travelled to my mother’s birthday;
this place in time where she is not. I am. I am
still. Moving

beyond into other spaces where there is love
and the sapid idea of the failure of meaning.

We are all stones in the womb
occasionally touching,
heading to dust.



Currently living in Argyll, Scotland with her partner, two children and a cat, Gillian Prew ditched philosophy in favour of poetry even though the former still haunts her. She has three collections of poems and has been published at Full of Crow, Counterexample Poetics, Gutter Eloquence, Gloom Cupboard, Fragile Arts Quarterly, 'ditch', and The Glasgow Review among others. She also recently became a 'Featured Artist' at Counterexample Poetics. 
 

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