Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Pascale Petit

Roots

Roots

Roots

I’ve come to lie on the basalt plain
where the earth is trying to heal itself,

to peer down a rift in the mantle
when the pain gets white, keep looking

until my chest blisters – right down
where a roiling valve beats like a heart

and my own heart bubbles.
The threads of my dress

spit and snarl. I soothe them.
I calm sun flares, plasma storms.

And on the cloth of fire I draw vines.
They shoot out from my hollows –

leaves large as hands
that stroke the wound of my land.
Close

Roots

I’ve come to lie on the basalt plain
where the earth is trying to heal itself,

to peer down a rift in the mantle
when the pain gets white, keep looking

until my chest blisters – right down
where a roiling valve beats like a heart

and my own heart bubbles.
The threads of my dress

spit and snarl. I soothe them.
I calm sun flares, plasma storms.

And on the cloth of fire I draw vines.
They shoot out from my hollows –

leaves large as hands
that stroke the wound of my land.

Roots

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère