Suppose, at the back of an aeroplane,
there was a little balcony
which people could be led to, and sat down on,
and left to themselves in the sky in,
gripping the railings,
to be bumped through the clouds at topspeed
like no one from nowhere to nowhere,
their hearts in their mouths, feeling sick,
but going so fast they can't even go on and be sick -
that's like my love,
my feverish love,
for you.

from My Italian Cardigan, found in Selima Hill's A Little Book of Meat.

Today's poetry: Selima Hill's A Little Book Of Meat, Bloodaxe, 1993. Read a couple of her poems in an anthology recently so naturally I checked out my shelves. This is the only Selima Hill book I currently have. I assure you, I will be looking for more. I remembered really enjoying her work as soon as I saw the cover. The cover is an unsettling close up photograph of a cow eye. The poems are unsettling in the same way, not extraordinary, just closer examined. She is fearless.

http://www.bloodaxebooks.com/