Sunday 3 May 2020

Erik Spinoy: Anna the Prophetess





AN OLD WOMAN


In this midwinter-gloomy
room

where old and wraithlike
gleam 
stain
still linger
with cap and collar coat
surviving faintly
faded fabric
and

where fleshy-soft with
pulpy apple-skin
a hand
with withered fingers
rests unresting
on the page

the spongy face hangs blurred
with eyes effaced by paint
precarious on the
slippery ledges
above depths
of paper.

So soft all this
so chill and slimy 
viscous – so pulpy
and unsavoury
this

has in your life
in rock-hard muscles
whitewashed bones
never been
seen.

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