after Louise Bourgeois’s ‘Arched Figure’
Please don’t wake me. Walking on my hands
through dream-suburbs of green belt, the gabled
house-fronts of Ickenham, I must slumber on
through volumes of obsession-diaries, feeding
myself with my clever girl’s fingers, tongue grown
too big for my mouth. Lying in my stockinette
of lard, stitched pig, I feel for dints or lumps
in this pillow of body; with my glass look like a doll’s
I monitor the leak of puberty, the filthy pink
of fat and brassière. I am your beloved daughter,
bandaged and snoring, sewn up in my name-tapes.
Bleed. Eat. Sleep. Cry. Cogitate. Chew my food
into mothers-and-fathers as the quarrelling starts.
What I want is a wand of light, my thoughts rising
like dew-smoke off the roof-felt, the brakes and creeks
of all the Americas to come swimming in my eyes.