Stephanie Rimmington
Daphne
Liberated
In a bath
of warm earth
my shape is regained
from curves of flesh,
and secured
in a staccato frame,
a fat cylinder
scabbed over
by bark,
adorned in laurel leaves;
I am hidden,
buried inside,
tucked away,
so you can punch me,
pinch me
and I will feel nothing.
My thick pulse is steady,
unmoveable.
Rooted
I am buried from the waist
down paralysed earth.
My torso cracked,
cross-hatched
bark veins me
then shoots
raw copper
fraying into air
like root threads
reaching,
knitting space
into a net of leaves;
out here
I am stretching
waxy fingers
but still
plugged to bones
of wood
my senses
brittled and buried
down paralysed earth.
Page(s) 60-61
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