gales about her ribs,
sounding chimes hollow and heavy in glockenspiel timbre.
She’s allowed barn swallows to roost in the splintered eaves of her head,
rust stained nail holes,
weathered by many winters,
give peephole views through the warped mind pane.
Cabbage moths hover and flee,
the breath escaping her pulmonary earthquake bed,
catching a tide with the moon,
as darkness from cloud covering spread.
Suncatchers in Murano hues,
hang behind her eyes,
glinting and igniting iris gardens,
black, blue, and white.
A graveyard of heirloom seeds sit in the womb,
her body no longer food for life,
she rooted to the canvas of crust and shale.
Piece her bones in lyrical flow,
of grass in sway,
flesh as ash and worm hole rails,
mapping distances far and near.
Lost is her siren song,
a sound of sunken sails sewn of her finest linen and silk,
gilded bangles and rings,
mosaic the earth in ruby thrush and emerald envy,
her spirit plucked as a found trinket,
tucked within the magpie’s love nest.
E.A. O'Connell
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