she had no agency,
and she never spoke.
impoverished, wandering, cool-eyed,
intricate fabric of hand-spun hopes.
there was once a riot of beautiful
people on her small stage, a cult
of the tired who danced between
great oaks of the living and the dead.
with bright thoughts on all harbors,
she was one of them to be sure,
but an old wind wound up and
carried her into an uncomfortable home.
she had to make it all out of bones
again, the foundation to the tower bell,
unearthing rocks to remove them,
singing in the darkness of blood.
life is a caste; a glacial, atomic,
tribal dance; a slow water in
the crevices of the fingers for
a woman made of confessions.
so she must endeavor to
wail at those old faces, so that
she might unmask her furious
hurricanes of fate and love.
she comes at this differently
now, deciphering as she goes,
uttering prayers beneath a
breath made of ancient dignity.
to poke through the pains of glass,
to bite down on her lip
and relearn harsh principles
that she can then discard.
everything has been left
half-eaten for her. everything
has been left to wash up
on the shore.
everything is soapy and
feels like it was just not
meant to be, and whatever
generous bounty was someone's else's.
but in this new face,
but in this new graciousness,
but in this new center,
but in this new sacred text,
she comes to terms
Beautiful!
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