My liver is sick with purple… Arshile Gorky
In between the red – there are geraniums,
Still there are geraniums – they feather red from
The window boxes under your white elbows up above my heart.
In June, I spread the orange apricots at your feet,
Roll them across your bosom; we name them
The flirts of the sun.
You sing your lark folly heart to me and I bathe
Warm in the luscious of you, brimming the bathtub
Over me; wave after wave of your heat.
I break the wheat on your plate, move it into gold
Through the arms of the plough, and shudder the sunset
Over stones to where you are now.
* Helen
Pletts is a regular IS&T contributor. She was born in the UK
but now lives in Prague in the Czech Republic, where she teaches
creative writing. She is in the process of moving back to the UK, meanwhile her latest collection – For the chiding dove – is available on Amazon.
