and the blood zings and every metacarpaled thing points to that bony moon. you find me here at the center of the spill and you say “these limbs don’t sway the way they used to” and the trees agree. i wanted spring: leafy arms dancing, all flower fingers and rustled song. what i have found is skeletal, twisted everywhichway and wrong and uncentered and strange. my hands are unquiet featherless birds that no longer know how to fly. the pinpricks of this electric sky showcase only scars.
An attempt at NaPoWriMo’s day 1 prompt.