I shed my dead motherís skin
over and over like a perpetual chrysalis.
My metamorphosis is slow,
gauze-like shreds re-cast themselves -
cover me again and again.
I roll towards riverís edge
steadied by stones and half-buried
slivers of aged crockery
while my gossamer fronds of filmy rot
form an opaque trail.
River-water stains, then seeps
through remains of my shredded skin.
Cleansed, debrided like a new-born babe
I fall back into the landscape of your grave
where blackness nulls all
but the strongest part of my shell.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Andrea Bowd
would be pleased to hear them.