bones full of empty
where the shot bird leaves its ashen song.
Night is a damply rotten blindfold
where the goblin-mother
stitches madness into nightmares.
I pay the wind to betray glass riders
who place black plumes
on the panicked heads of their Arab stallions.
I call for my blue sister who fell unborn
from the goblin-mother
in disguise of oleander and moonflower.
I paint my tongue haint blue
and call her here
to grow vines of sibling song,
In threads of peace, protection,
and soft dawn light
braided on the morning glory bloom.
___________
For Sunday Muse #91, where I am hosting.
