Gedicht
Pascale Petit
Roots
Roots
Roots
I’ve come to lie on the basalt plainwhere the earth is trying to heal itself,
to peer down a rift in the mantle
when the pain gets white, keep looking
until my chest blisters – right down
where a roiling valve beats like a heart
and my own heart bubbles.
The threads of my dress
spit and snarl. I soothe them.
I calm sun flares, plasma storms.
And on the cloth of fire I draw vines.
They shoot out from my hollows –
leaves large as hands
that stroke the wound of my land.
© 2010, Pascale Petit
From: What the Water Gave Me: Poems after Frida Kahlo
Publisher: Seren, Bridgend
From: What the Water Gave Me: Poems after Frida Kahlo
Publisher: Seren, Bridgend
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Roots
I’ve come to lie on the basalt plainwhere the earth is trying to heal itself,
to peer down a rift in the mantle
when the pain gets white, keep looking
until my chest blisters – right down
where a roiling valve beats like a heart
and my own heart bubbles.
The threads of my dress
spit and snarl. I soothe them.
I calm sun flares, plasma storms.
And on the cloth of fire I draw vines.
They shoot out from my hollows –
leaves large as hands
that stroke the wound of my land.
From: What the Water Gave Me: Poems after Frida Kahlo
Roots
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