writing

I understand the madness of Plath
the Woolfe beating at the door beyond the river
stones with my name invisibly chiselled
whining invitations of oven door hinges
these wildly wavering circles of writing
not writing is not being, not breathing
I do not wake to the world
until ink descries the page
there I create an ache of truth
too real to breathe outside the confines of the pen
ink stains on fingertips mark the trail
of the words that escaped
as I pile them one atop the next
a meager defense against the rising of the river
so hard not to tumble into torrents
let alone wade in open-armed
with birds in my ears, lost time tangled in my hair,
and the stones of forever tucked into worn woolen pockets
fill my lungs against the battle of ovens
and the Woolfe-ish mouths of rivers
while I write I breathe, I breathe

© Sarah Whiteley

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