At dusk words float,
Blue-fingered, without weight
In a world gone fragrant
As a gold egg cradling rose-pink yolk.
Timid at first, stilled like deer at a lake,
Now they gather to me, who pretends sleep,
Covering my face with their hands.
In the memory palace, the dead
Take short breaths.
Shamans breathe a name for who I am.
Shamans litany me into being.
I open my cold eyes, my throat.
I enter the bath, let the waters
Close over me like a gem,
Then reach for my anklet,
My red bolt of silk.
The sun rises.
From the mysterious generosity of a mother,
The sun rises.
—This time I will not be false, this time, I will be
Clear from all falsehood like a snake from its last season’s skin.
from You Darling Thing Find more by Monica Ferrell at the library
Copyright © 2018 Monica Ferrell
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.