Black Pitch
 
Drink it down and down again.
The taste is unexpected
neither liquorice nor treacle,
a smooth skin strong enough
to stretch like gum on a rack,
its triple-folded thickness
will slide with reluctance
to defy the weight of your world.
No swallow can truly defeat it
as it creeps back up again,
a persistent canker worm
dressed as a clogging retch.
 
Back in your mouth again
the taste reintroduces itself
as an imagined oil slick
into which you have fallen
while it was drunk on seawater.
Using your index finger
you tempt a clot from its body
and watch it twirl seductively
around and around
as if on a helter skelter
on the way to any destination
as long as it is you.
 
On some quiet winter evenings
it pretends to be black liquid
injected thinly from a vial
using a needle to scratch into
your saddened, broken vein
replacing the hope draining out.
Once inside, it settles in,
expanding into its new home,
travelling everywhere,
remaining to sleep a sleep
that will wake you up forever
and ever in its own horror.

Susan Wilson
 

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Susan Wilson would be pleased to hear them