Rebecca Dunham
GHAZAL IN MINIUM
The powder is poison, red-heavy, earth. I write what I see, St. Hildegard
said. Flames erupt from her forehead, flood her brain, heart, & breast.
Like two pears wrapped in tissue, the breasts reveal themselves.
Like cold & sculpted stone, they desire breath upon their skin.
The disease woman crouches beneath her diagnoses. Never say fear fuels
the hypochondriac, but passion. Life softens & she clutches tighter.
More.
Like a pale sack filled with rocks, the skin of the engorged breast smarts.
Like a sunburst, stretch marks flare cinnabar, rays from her nipple.
Self-Portrait in the Letter R: Remember, straight head &
spine. Imagine
your vertebrae as beads on a string that runs to the ceiling, to a hand
unseen.
