This is her story. A
rum-scented morning—
washday—clay skies and
chamomile. She stirs:

counterclockwise—whispers
gallstones and cholera in her
Irish tongue. Lichen crumbles
between her palms, dissolves

iodine eyes on the pond’s
thick skin, burning.
Spicebush and swallowtail,
she’s a tangerine

phoenix. Dark gills, pale
owl’s feathers, bony stalks.
Hellebore, digitalis, nightshade.
Lapis lazuli chokes her collarbone,

forms blister at the throat.
She lies in a web of
grass: hooded, dusty,
waiting for snow.

© 2007 prickofthespindle.com