trout

Among the Freuds

Diana Bridge

The seep of blood, or garbage,
from your body
is a trail.

Are you ready to be read?

You open your answering legs
as though you were modelling for Freud.

You dream that you have let
the tide wash in;

you feel its salt lick on the back wall
of the womb –

or other pocket – one of those loose shapes
that ease into the human outline.

Soon you will forget its solitary sob,
the music of yourself
emptying.

It's all the same now
you are sharing yourself with the sea.