A new poem by Alexandra Pasian

“All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!” - Macbeth, Act 1, Sc. 3

Thane of Cawdor

The light is red now washes the walls,
his face—yellowed by a diseased liver—

ashen. The body dreams itself;
a man made new to root out

ill humour, plots forgotten.
In years to come there will be medicine

so strong it will mimic the disease itself.
But, for now, it’s all rock and lump

working hard math across his skin.