Rebirth is a myth

by Elizabeth Chadwick Pywell

 

 

 

Rebirth is a myth
Foetal, the moon is waning
against the dark in this bed,
melting like a woman’s cheek
when a hand meets it.
In the moment of acceptance,
the I am, her ruptured surface
was briefly whipped velvet, but now
she is pockmarked and wan.
A smile is not bravery
and a caress is not permission.
Under the cloak of the dark,

I am is not you may.
This is not a birth.
This is a cock fight, a spitting
feathers, a fucking scratch to
the eyeball, a nail twisted
through skin, a howling
and then a muddying, a
paling, a calcification
into a child’s painted orb.
This is a waning, a curl of a girl
disappearing into herself,
falling from the edge of the bed
like a grey baby from a cradle.

Author Bio

Elizabeth Chadwick Pywell is a poet from York. She has most recently been published in The Selkie, Drawn to the Light Press and Tipping the Scales Literary Journal, and was nominated for The Pushcart Prize in 2020. Her first collection is due to be published in 2021