Girl

 She said she collects pieces of sky, 
cuts holes out of it with silver scissors, 
bits of heaven she calls them.
 
Every day a bevy of birds flies rings 
around her fingers, my chorus of wives, 
she calls them.
 Every day she reads poetry 
from dusty books she borrows from the library, 
sitting in the park, she smiles at passing strangers, 
yet can not seem to shake her own sad feelings.
 
She said that night reminds her of a cool hand 
placed gently across her fevered brow, said 
she likes to fall asleep beneath the stars, 
that their streaks of light make her believe 
that she too is going somewhere.
 Infinity, 
she whispers as she closes her eyes, 
descending into thin air, where no arms 
outstretch to catch her.
 

Originally published in Magaera, Spring 2005.

Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2005

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