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