TRUDGING ON Catherine Sigurdsson
The dark black stone and the darker water, The broken bodies of cannon fodder, The heavy feet that fall as mice scatter, The sewer gates wrought of iron clatter— All cling to me as I thrust forward to light, Pull my bleeding feet deeper into blight. The scratching tinted sheets starched stiff, The cherry red baby pink soap with tar’s whiff, The symphony of coughs and hacks and moans, The scattered taps of nurses and doctors’ groans— All draw to me as I slip backwards to gloam, Fill my echoing ears with fading worms that roam. The yellow fields glistening gold under blistering sun, The stalks sinking and ripe with work to be done, The brown dust rising and clogging my breath, The rushing river’s white peaks and navy depth— All open to me as I collapse downwards to dark, Wash my blighted skin free of calamity’s mark.
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1960'S COLLAGE | KATHERINE HANCOCK | OIL STICK, CHALK, CHARCOAL
