Postcard – Untitled
Before Mark Rothko
As the floor gives way, I’m a bird always burning up
in the desert. Every few years, I tear off my layers.
I eat the ashes of predecessors.
I’m the torment of cells, neural connections.
I’ve learned the process: like a river the flow
in my veins is never the same twice. If you stare
into me, you’ll pay the price.
I’ll wear the halo; you keep your distance.
I’ll push through the prison bars of your eyelashes.
Whiteness around me—the bleached surface of a
cistern. Like me it’s sterile. I’m the augury of a cut
finger—how it pools. My pain exquisite as a stingray.
I offer no trigger warning, no disclaimer.
I’m coming at you with a switchblade.
Patrick Wright has a poetry collection, Full Sight of Her, published by Eyewear (2020). He has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and teaches English Literature and Creative Writing at the Open University.