Fathers' throats fill with wind.
Stars bay like lost dogs
defending the edge of the world
from the shriek of memory.
Take my hand.
It is made of Egypt and empty windows.
I build monuments
to sparrows with royal souls.
I am dead, blown to the borders
of everything I am and was.
This little hill of baubles
is yours now to sell or sew into the sleeves of poems.
Mothers, strangers, mute myths of shadow,
leave me in peace at last.
I follow the fathers with their wind-throats
a girl again, sung to, willing to be fooled for a kiss.
a second poem for Sunday Muse #121.