She breathes in their shadow-
the terracotta dust sands down her weeping lungs
she curls in silence, tearing.

They have dented her skeleton
enveloped her dreams in a pounding cloak
she crushes her knees with her brow.

In the kaleidoscopic blackness
She dances shapes into her mother’s softened guise
“I am thinking of you”

A crack in the atmosphere barks,
Shooting splinters draw constellations beyond her eyelids
She crawls underneath the table.

She prepares the book to be closed.
Bends back the spine so they will know where she stopped reading
The next half will be different.