Rebelle
for Noël
Wrapped in gowns of gabardine streams
no tongue native to these words
claimed like scars in the palm
of singing hands
walked, talked the dance, a hymn
of a trance, wrapped in the rope of
a lover’s new dance
the rain falls
necklaced and night-seeing
abalone sorrows becoming
a story told to the collarbone
the old ways relearned
taller than tidal wave, deep
as a stone skipped along
surface of woven alone
new moon shadows
wounds unwrapped in desert
rooms without walls, a
mourning dream without
regrets
my fingers feel worn some
Wednesdays, mouth dry
from breathing hard, waiting
for new spirits
this is the way the
heart knows to get what it wants
without paying a price
it can’t afford.
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