“The process of transformation consists almost entirely of decay.” – Pat Barker, Regeneration


Do not split open my chrysalis;
I haven’t a self to show you yet.

I came home and my body didn’t fit,–

A flesh-sack, my name still stitched
To the skin, yet unfamiliar all the same.

I couldn’t keep it pinned upon my frame.

With rootless threads of sinew-string
I wove within a brittle shell of hell
My soft pulp – a liquid, lifeless thing.

One month within that carceral husk
Of de-and-re-composing,
Yet still, I’m lax and liminal;–

On the edge of almost changing.




Therapies – An Elegy

18.02.1997 – 08.06.2008

Her skull was a map of inroad scars

For doctors; their colonial quest

To graft that precious, mottled globe.


Tufts of hair would sometimes sprout –

Downy grass to shroud, to pall

That site of neurologic digs,–

Her body stored means of revolt.


Blithe and buoyant I never saw

Those cruel crab-pincers killing her.


Eleven, and still peeling fresh

From life its glossy cellophane,

‘Terminal’ was three syllables

Of a word I’d not collected yet.


Off-air, on frail hiatus days,

Words were her IV escape.

She died.

Now I dose likewise for her sake.