from TheFeatheredSleep
They ran through markets
elms strung with sari’s
bedecked with jewels and
girls kenning their heads
babes at their breast
growing crowns of red and indigo
she pressed into my palm
the spell of her rune
smelling of Finnish water stone
rubbed over and over beneath time
leaves still containing their flung pigment
where slippered feet ran and picked them
casting their glass throng to glory
she has the shiny hair of a child and
cheeks full for her pressed size
she who is gone and now returned
talking in other languages with Irish accent
she who manifests and disappears and is reborn
doesn’t look large enough to give birth
or sing at the top of a road the song of her
we were
separated by water and fear and longing
broken in sea, put back together by current
I was always swimming in her direction and the
light tread…
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