Bones spiral outward
drenched in gold
small and thin, chicken or child
Golden chrysalis of pain
a stillness unbroken
by waves of thunder
That last night of Mary’s month
the sky dripped fire
and eleven thousand
Stars burned in the wayward streets
men phosphorescent
turned to little lumps of clay
In our hour of need, O Princess
did you spread wide
your ermine cloak?
Filed under: Grace Andreacchi, Issue 3, Grace Andreacchi
