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.