I wrapped my eyeballs
in soft cloth and tucked them away
they will not look at
you again
my two lips
I buried in the dust
now they thirst only for water
my swift feet
rest among the cobwebs
your door is thousands of miles
from here
my arms
are hidden in the snow
they can never hold you
back
I should have parted with
the heart
it still beats, and beats, and
beats.
Breasts
Anne Pilling
They have done the state some service and they know it
suckled my boys, pleasured my man.
Now they have to go under the knife.
I’m being good to them, I’ve bought
fine cottons pricked with little flowers,
I bathe them in sweet oils and I no longer
sit like a hunchback cramming them from sight.
Why in my fat-girl days did I wear bags
to hide their lovely roundness? Why did I
mound them with cushions on our old settee?
In water they float out like lily pads
nippled with dark pink buds as this old river
creeps silently to its weir. Sad I’ve denied them, sad
how love, released, runs wild when it is too late
Your Feet
Pablo Neruda
When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your gentle weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon the
wind and upon the waters
until they found me.
