From the fire, we make
clay, from the heartstrings:
witnesses. There is only
one path we’re inevitably
going to follow–self-fulfilling
prophecies wrapped
in magnolia petals. Who
doesn’t dream of being
stolen away?…Somewhere
shiny and unfamiliar,
blame plumes and red
legs that go on for days–
it doesn’t matter if
the feathers are from
a crane or the doll left
behind decades ago.
Advertisements
