She runs her hands along the grain, movement a stain
hearing rust loosen and turn to red and green exquisitely
grief lies her head slower in time
perhaps given enough, doors opening to learn
why she holds her hand over her mouth so long
as her sisters, once younger and afraid, nesting behind her skirts
flew from their hinged cages, they had less fear than she
though in truth it is not fear that stays her hand
but a lament she was born with, hearing in her crib, the press of tragedy
Like some will carry lanterns, light darkest paths, for others to step towards
as her sisters learn to speak new language and grow like hungry ivy
she feels the pit of her stomach open and a seedling sprout from within
it hurts so much to grow internally, like a miscarriage refusing to leave
she holds on to every moment as thick rope will choke, if you let it
she must drive it out of her
but how to divorce the parts necessary for survival? Retain a whole?
from those who seek to devour
as light will find a way into a closed off room
distinction slowly lost, leaving shadows to dance on clean tile
the smell of another day, unsure, it is about all time before, come to now
see her lying still, as untouched water in glassy gloom
how she wished to follow their burning quilled footsteps
higher into turquoise forest where even now, laughter can be heard
below surface where nothing stirs, but slow tread of one who is neither alive nor perished
but fragment awaiting its missing part
she thought so often it was you, and then her empty hands
demonstrate
the futility of wishing
for we are free only when, we claim nothing but the words growing in our gut
urging us to cry when we are supposed to laugh