About the poet
Lavinia Greenlaw (b. 1962) is a Londoner by birth and has lived in the city for much of her life...
Those buried lidless eyes can see
the infra-red heat of my blood.
I feel the crack, the whisper
as vertebrae ripple and curve.
Days of absolute stillness.
I sleep early and well.
His rare violent hunger,
a passion for the impossible.
He will dislocate his jaw
to hold it.
My fingers trace the realignment
as things fall back into place.
Each season, a sloughed skin
intensifies the colours that fuse
with mineral delicacy at his throat.
he will come between us.
Last night you found his tooth
on your pillow.
From A World Where News Travelled Slowly, (Faber & Faber, 1997), copyright © Lavinia Greenlaw 1997, used by permission of the author and the publisher.
Sponsor this poem
Would you like to sponsor this poem? Find out how here.