Broken Devil by Patricia Walsh

Silence!  My sisters and I
measure perfectly your transgression,
hunting furtively your future mistakes. 

The steel wheel remains, nondescript
an accomplishment, fuelling your feat
crows’ indefinite feet spay a miracle. 

A secret-keeper, a division bell,
chimes to inform us of misdeeds
committed by morganatic tumours. 

rituals of sorrow, self-inflicted wounds,
taking the fall for eternal sunrise
war-torn classroom, a blossom rent. 

Flesh upon flesh, a zero-made hour
death abounds in its influence of silence
lapping up the gods’ cream in the last days. 

Sorrow-bound, unexploded, fine.
Other women upstairs, tend to your need
feeding sparrows like tomorrow didn’t exist. 

Dream of Celtic twilight, blind, a dark place
mistletoe crumbs litter the carpet
like banned confetti, pointless, obscure.

Some matriarch you were.  Files are missing
cover up your crass mistake, a longing
to weave shadows, a dark water. 

So what if you’re broken?  Rumour has it
to the very marrow your unease lies
a dead thing, season’s ritual gone. 

A house of flesh still lives, autonomous
Your face is tomorrow, a peroxide bump
a hard place and a rock, resting awhile

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