The horizon

Back straight, chin high, posies pinstriped down cotton, legs tucked beneath skirt, dirt in her hair, bare wrists, twists of desert grasses where buttons might have been, green eyes gone. What is she seeing, the woman? What has she done?

In spry fingertips, a porcelain saucer, spinning, spinning, stalling the setting sun. Black flies form idle congregations, unmoved by evening draught or dust, by what she’s ceding to infant shadows. Her best intentions can’t hold it in her throat. Rasping, gut-heavy, feral fork-tongued song, carving its place between the dunes. And all the time the saucer spinning, spinning, marking time.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s