Dream Flowers

Sadhbh Uí Chonaill

maybe you'll see me around town when I get out

in my make-up. there will be nothing

beneath this suggestion of a woman.

it is a sheet, or an animal with a head

quietly bowed, or a contemplative moment, or

tight cross-winds that envelope the world, or

an iron-stench on the pall of wine.

maybe if I blotch my skin

and under white waters

wrap my head in smoke

I will love the tight crop,

bunched like an anus in the soil.

have I come back from

collecting peat to burn?

have I finished reading down

the floss-thin white world?

have I prepared my points

to spear the old, deep-washed things,

spitefully bricked and created,

and to foist them into the fire,

the eye-spattered pits of time?

have I come back out from beneath

the genres of my body?

maybe if I bludgeon my skirt,

my plastics, my dream figurines.

maybe at night I make

myself a promise.

maybe at night I transform

myself into a promise.

maybe at night I am just

barely promised

an existence. a promise on a womb:

I will go under white watersheds

and wrap my headland and land

in smouldering wounds like coal-pits,

acne in the open earth,

and ring my grassland in braces,

chokers and laces, images of denial,

I will lug the tight crossing

bunched centrally like an apex,

like a pinnacle, like an apologist,

like I've been caught, or like shame is bunched.

maybe if I scale my skin,

maybe if skins are like rapids,

maybe if I can track my seeds

and trample pained birth

across the world in cobblestoned placentas,

maybe if I fall as the body crumples,

bent in sudden pain, and never rise,

maybe if I gore my eyes

and defy all these dreamy satires

cooking in my skin,

maybe if I gore my eyes

and gore the image,

and bury the conspiring pair,

maybe I give up now,

maybe is not a word,

after all, but maybe

my blood will prevail,

my head will be healed,

maybe by my words I can pull myself out

from beneath the wreckage of history.