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emily-grace-1Poems
They proclaimed she was the “all-or-nothing” breed, a single lark thriving amongst the wrens. Her eyes were as lanterns, luminous and protruding, as if she had ingested the heavens and now they sought a means to escape. The slow slant of her lips was textured and fine, a simpering halt in her meadow of face. They sang at her alters and allow her put-upon face to blur through the lines, streaking under the curls of their incense. Skin faintly blue shines silky as lies, still like the cloak wrapped tight around her soul. A knife was pressed close, slight and silver as the pulse of her heart. Eyes flicker wide; her last breath slides through. She is the world, they whisper, hushed as the tears of her blood cry down their arms.
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Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
Her hands hold many or her hands hold none.
They proclaimed she was the “all-or-nothing” breed, a single lark thriving amongst the wrens. Her eyes were as lanterns, luminous and protruding, as if she had ingested the heavens and now they sought a means to escape. The slow slant of her lips was textured and fine, a simpering halt in her meadow of face. They sang at her alters and allow her put-upon face to blur through the lines, streaking under the curls of their incense. Skin faintly blue shines silky as lies, still like the cloak wrapped tight around her soul. A knife was pressed close, slight and silver as the pulse of her heart. Eyes flicker wide; her last breath slides through. She is the world, they whisper, hushed as the tears of her blood cry down their arms.
Taking a title from another. A line from Karen Volkman’s “[She goes, she is, she wakes the waters]”
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emily-grace-1
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
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