Deep in the night she goes crashing.
She has feather duster wings and a festering hope–
She has the solace of darkness on her shoulders and in her lungs and cradled in the curve of her elbow–
There are twenty-four brothers with their arms around her calves–
Sixty sisters, shrieking on the door step–
She goes crashing.
Beautiful? She is?
Old friends swoop in from the attic to perch on her shoulders, to sweet-gossip and trade nightmares–
This is a colorfast world, and she is vermillion.
Her shoulder blades are scored and the little bird she has in her rib cage is sagging, but
She still goes, deep in the night.