She’s a white curl snarl of bright
stone, shone in fire and song. We
watch her tail turn black, wane
smudge into this talon-punctured
scrim. She swims across the inky
ocean, curved into her own dark
flank. She’s listening for the tides,
the tried and true sound of her
own liquid beat. Draw close; she’ll
tell you constellationesque stories
with her crimson breath, freckled
shine fallen far out behind her, a coda;
a kite tail. A pebbled trail of poems.
Her last ash, withered. A storm of sigh.
written for toads.