More Penelope Swales

[walbourn]

If some alchemist
Was to take a scraping from my womb
What a potent residue that man might find
I am not clean
I have been stamped and stained
Cherished and discarded time and again
I am not pure
But I am not ashamed
These indelible marks tell a story
Not for the faint hearted

If some bright young shrink
Was to pull a thread from my mind
What a tangled, coloured skein that boy might find
I am not neat
My thoughts lie in piles
Memories lie heaped in corners, jumbled files
I am not clear
But I might be wise
These dog-eared diaries tell a story
Not fit for such innocent eyes

If some strange surgeon was to poke his curiouscope into my heart
What four-chambered horrors might he find
If he was to steal my blood and place it writhing on the slide
He'd find it to full of plankton to sustain a human life

My courage has been watered down by the oceans that divide us
They've diluted all my own humble tide
If some long-fingered specialist was to wrap his knuckles 'round my wrist
He might wonder why the hell I'm still alive
In fact, the only reason I can find
For why I haven't pined and died
Is because it is so goddam out of style

If the Oriental sage was to read my pulse
What story would those jungle rhythms sing
They'd sing a song of longing and betrayal
Of hope too stubborn to need faith
And a loyalty too deep to be assailed

It's hopeless, Doc
It's terminal
I can tell just by the look upon your face
How did I become impaled
In a way that other loves have failed
To nail me to a given time or place?
Can you tell me how it came to pass
That I should become so soaked in sadness
That everything I touch, I leave a stain
Blood-red footprints in the sand
Smudges where I lay my hands
Iridescent in the moonlight's trail