QueenofDawn

    Each spring, the tombstones of Ettenmoor Manor crown themselves in colors older than kings. Stern stone figures trail trains of creeping phlox, ancient etchings are smothered in thick vines.

Anxiety twists bedsheets in its sleep,
coughs up coffin nails,
drowns out sounds with cotton swabs
as it clutches a locked metal box to its chest.
It hides daisies behind a silicone mask

Woman is fuchsia falling apart in October, softly
humming lullabies through an angel’s teeth.
Woman is pomegranate seeds sliced into revolving stars,
dissolving into marzipan, sweet
honey dew hymn,

1. There are sixteen paper cranes hanging from the ceiling, dancing with the vertigo of sunrise panic. Wait for your organs to stop falling while you count them. One, two. Sixteen is smaller than you think.

Sometimes, when I miss you, the wind blows through my skeleton.
I think these bones must be hollow - 
what other explanation can I give that haunting hum?
Stumbling, a child fumbling the ridges of a flute with unpracticed fingers.