Lady Macbeth

 On the graveyard of my
bed—a phantom life rises,
sinks and rises
again. I remember back—
the first bulge of belly and taut
swell of breasts. My scalp
burns. I pull at clumps
of hair. I am afraid
to touch pictures. Tiny
fingers extract capillaries.

Winter darkness comes
early—my mind wanders
the long corridor. Words
are cheap paper
plates. I throw them away.
My body—a quilt made
from scraps. I fixate on the angry
blood staining
my leg like wine.

Terri writes, “Personally, poetry matters because my fingers need the dance partner of pen or keyboard. Communally, poetry moves us from our personal cell block into the madness and meaning of this spinning axis. Poetry interprets and re-interepts the world again and again. It makes sense of what can not be made sense of. Poetry lets truth work us over in a back alley.