She woke with hyacinth on Her tongue:
Beneath a sky of equal hue, a plain of infinite saturation
From grounded flames, rose smoke from a winter garden’s pyre
-a March wind gave shift-
The sky masquerading as a butcher’s blood flecked apron, upon which red tails were wheeling,
left shadow threads in Her aqueous humour, like fingers smearing their duty
Piano keys in hammer and caress from a rain rotted porch, gave hymn to the hatchet as it forced through the block
The trickle of the thin stream, quietly fattened in winter’s last melt
Sunny lambs gave a mama warning bleat, as the grass splintered under a slow uneven weight
His shadow stormed Her frame
-a cell of expectation unlatched Her lips-
from them Hyacinth blue speech, as intriguing as the cool lit center of a match
“We Walk”
Her bare feet out of step with His heavy black boots,
His eyes of white gave stare to Her neck
His salivating tongue pressed to the back of His teeth
{a gash-burning touch ~ the claw scratch of enamel}
Rough pronged vulture wings circled hungry, screaming their pangs into a silvered silence
His head in turn to seek their angle, to sniff out the carcass of their want
-such a curious fool of covetous rot-
Her hand a quick release, the hatchet slicing through the breeze, embedding within His skull
-an eclipse of laughter unlatched Her lips-
from them Hyacinth blue speech,
as precise as the pressed hem of Her funeral dress
“Not Today”
The rise of Her arms {sweeping downward, stretching back, floating forward to calm shoulder height, before slowly resting at Her side},
called forth the vultures, talons scarring the earth as they circled His body, nodding and dancing their gratitude, before lacerating the fabric of His bones
Retrieving Her hatchet and a jagged stone, She gripped the aged handle within Her left palm
With Her right, She carved a single hatch-mark, giving company to the great many that came before.
E.A. O'Connell
