February 23, 2010
Macbeth
“Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hands?”
Macbeth
Coughing copper, ten crusted fingers tear
Hair matted in scabbed chunks against my scalp.
Confusion bleeds to horror, as murder
Drains its filth into my pores and psyche.
The shower runs red, faucets spit crimson;
Five cakes of soap slide off scrubbed hands and face.
My brain grows sticky, guilty, and needs sleep.
The unborn avenger should finish quick
And take my life; cover the stains with earth.
My lady, unsexed, took selfish respite.
I lived by the sword, sought gain with treason’s
Knife. Now pay my crimes with specters which haunt
Like the wild, bearded women that started
My ambition upon my damnation.
Iterative Poetry 