and silent salt. The squawking cry
of hungry gulls. The broken praise
of trees. She’s on her knees in dark
-est hour, bone-tired and waiting.
Forgive her, Father (Son, and wholly
long-loved ghost); at most, she’s brave.
She’s sinned, and skinned her knees
on all these pavement skies, these
curbs and cried-out private cul-de
-sac backstreets. This is her con
-fession: forgiveness ain’t free. And she
knows that (ro-sham)beaux escape
to embered breeze. She’s 16 again, a
glorious disaster in alabaster skin,
flush with protest and promise. She’s
rarely sorry, never sane, lost in a
weather vane of just-found true north
wind. She is scribbler, smudger, scribe.
Describe her with a hint of haunt,
the pinch of sturdy pen-cap pen
-chant. I can’t imagine her wild am
-bitious heart passing through any other
place. These shaky hands (against all odds)
are starving for this toxic love-hate page.
In November, we poem and poem. This is the one with all the prompts.