after Tracey Emin
The rain is galloping. I think of Sylvia Plath
& ‘The Highwayman’ & Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron.
There are lorries so big their wheels
are minor gods, sick to their silver bellies.
24/7 news chews my hair. My thighs
feel badly & tattooed. I miss & miss.
I wonder if my dad is on my birth certificate.
I think it’s in the drawer with my bank statements.
Rabbit feet, skin-hot pearls, stars, lint,
stars in a puddle like a headwound on a pavement.
I am head-to-toe intestines.
I am a sack of road rash & nail clippings.
My bed is writhing with spiders
& I am only five of them.