this poem
is a bright blue
skysong, scattered notes
caught in brazen beaks.
she’s tweaked and kerned
and leaned and learned
her way to sigh
-lence, and the violet violence
of petalled eaves.
she’s a spangled dragon,
blowing syllabled smoke.
a woman scorned,
a jilted bloke.
this poem is all those gathered
tree-skins, breezed to phrase.
she’s unfazed by storm or
social norms or the torn
-off pieces of her own tell
-tale heart.
she’ll stop and start
and stop (and start) again
as many times as she pleases.
she’s weaving blades
of grass to crass-crunk verse,
rehearsing to exit
(stage left)
right after the curse
is lifted.
she’s a witch’s spell
brewed and stewed and steeped
in croak and crunch.
she’s a fancy brunch
without the teaspoons or benedict
(arnold) be
-trayal. she’s putting
everything
(and absolutely nothing)
on this empty table.
PAD Challenge, day 8.
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