This is how it is at the end –
me lying in my bath
while the waters break,
my skin glistening with amnion,
streaks of starlight.
And the waters keep on breaking
as I reverse out of my body.
My life dances on the silver surface
where cacti flower.
The ceiling opens
and I float up on fire.
Rain pierces me like thorns. I have a steam veil.
I sit bolt upright as the sun’s rays embrace me.
Water, you are a lace wedding-gown
I slip over my head, giving birth to my death.
I wear you tightly as I burn –
don’t make me come back.
from What the Water Gave Me: Poems after Frida Kahlo (Seren, 2010), © Pascale Petit 2010, used by permission of the author and the publisher