They speak of her weight
the weather and the worms in her brain.
A captive audience
trying to deflect their words
with closed crusty eyelids
she traces butterflies spiralling in her skull.
Times there were flocks
Spanish queens, emperors, hermits, weavers
and from the far purple fields
a rare pearl in parenthesis.
Today one small cloud flits her mind’s blue.
Scattering if rains come
a few graylings on her parched tongue.
Tinctured with the colours
of dusk and stone
one she truly wants
shutting pale wings vanishes in a crevice of bone.
turned perch, finally coaxes Invisible down
sweetest communion of any
spreading spicy and molten
through her mouth.
Till a voice says where the hell did that come from?
A synapse must have sparked
Shaky and chapped
her dusty lips
summon a cardinal’s prayer:
Lord take me home and letting me go let me go alone.