image from fllt.com
this poem was originally written for Poetry in the Pines, an online literary magazine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ she remembers the hum~ a gold-threaded hymn stitching the clover, the way her sisters wore sunlight like dresses, their bodies tiny looms woven with purpose. Now, her wings whisper against the silence, a dialect of dust. No queen to serve, no hive to heat with the labor of her legs. Only the ghost of a thousand blooms tightening in her throat~ sweetness undelivered, a contract broken by the vanishing. she circles the empty field like a comma searching for its sentence, her shadow the last word left.
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