by janeeatonhamilton

I have been reading ekphrasis poetry most of the day. But when I write it, it always seems to turn out more to be the imagined mind of the artist creating rather than a comment on her/his work. Here is one by Pascale Petit, on Frida Kahlo (because I just recently took in an exhibit of her work), who also writes by inhabiting the imagined artist’s mind:

What the Water Gave Me (VI)

This is how it is at the end –

me lying in my bath
while the waters break,
my skin glistening with amnion,
streaks of starlight.

And the waters keep on breaking
as I reverse out of my body.

My life dances on the silver surface
where cacti flower.

The ceiling opens
and I float up on fire.

Rain pierces me like thorns. I have a steam veil.

I sit bolt upright as the sun’s rays embrace me.

Water, you are a lace wedding-gown
I slip over my head, giving birth to my death.

I wear you tightly as I burn –
don’t make me come back.