On the fringes
eroded and distorted, she will stay;
chipped teeth, chewing on sand
and a gritty tongue, licking, lapping,
Pawing, at the porch.
Though, her fixtures – askew,
she will not weep.
Floorboards bowed and bowing
to the weight – of the air,
saturated, with salt – or perhaps –
the echoes, the chatter
of children, or ribs, cracking;
Does she tow her own ghost?
We, paralian children, are clever; we know
that though the wind may buckle her bough,
it will not break her.
Resilience, rust,
with a head upon her breast,
we will fall;
asleep.
Though nobody is home
she will reserve the right
to take a new name.
Nov 26, 2019
Nov 26, 2019 at 1:14 AM UTC