The Woman Who Drank Us Up
She was the woman who drank us up,
gripped us in her graveyard grasp and drained us,
until we were almost uncreated, loose skin and slack bones.
She was the woman who smeared our lids with honey
until blisters, sugar pink and sweet the way she liked, frosted views,
extinguished stars, volcanoes, whole shining landscapes.
Each day, we were tilted to her lips, a flawless set, to be unfilled,
she swallowed us, the bitter juices, iron blood, the frothy head,
savoured her duty in the way that martyrs nurse small flames.
She was the woman who pulled down moons to make candles,
pressed them in hot wax to lock in light,
who even sipped the perfect dark of dreaming.
Lesley Quayle is a poet, author and folk/blues singer. Her most recent collection Sessions was published by Indigo Dreams Press. She is currently working on another collection and a novel.
Note: This poem won second prize in Second Light Competition and appeared in Parents anthology