Thursday, 20 May 2010

re Pumpkin Moon

Chases my inky form or am I following it?
I’m reminded of pumpkin moon lodged
in Omoba sky; under which my young

fanny was fingered by Uncle Innocent’s paws.
On frayed mat in a camphor tinged room,
I wriggled; bewildered, until my movements
became bound by the spell of magic moon.

Now: I imagine pumpkin moon has the power
to reach into my skull and crack its wall,
scattering the pips of dormant gloom. It near-
succeeds, tugging the corners of Vaselined lips.

Catherine Mark

3 comments:

Cynthia said...

Oh my Gosh, Catherine. This poem
Pumpkin Moon reaches out and
finger breathes upon the pysche.
Gently written, yet the quiet
evil frays each word.

Excellent.

Menina said...

Very powerful!

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