She glides on molting wings
safe and sixteen, in what
should be a dusty field of
concord, flame and frivolity but
instead the meat of her heart is
rent from her ribcage and
slapped on the platter in her
irrational, shaking hands and
she carries it to the utilitarian
platform to be squeaked at by
pitying mice and those sorry
familiar pupils gape like sticky tar in
vacant buckets and spook her
a bucking, glossy mare in
the crosshairs of distress
she is bleeding at the gums
she thrashes in citron clouds
she prudently blames the moon
for her impending madness
15 July 2009
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