Every morning she’s down there
on the verge, barefoot and swaying her weight
like her holy soles are slow-burning
The light here is an old violin, cracked
varnish music
scratching bars through the watcher’s window
and her grey head bows angel time while she dances
if that’s what this is
By the eighth morning I’ve composed her life
from scraps, quilting her song
with real wild bright minors
I toast her with coffee
and sing her down ribbons
The day I leave she treadles the gutter
stormwater, kicks up sticks and feathers
cursing the rain
cursing the pigeons, the windows, the watcher
wearing a whole different heart
and the light is more hammer than strings
Photo by (c) Ankh Spice
Bio on mini interviews blog http://poetryminiinterviews.blogspot.com/2022/01/ankh-spice-part-one.html?sm_au=iVVrjf8kjTJ8DssVHtJqHK0qJ6jF1
@seagoatscreams on Twitter
2020 Pushcart Nominee
Ankh Spice is a poet from Aotearoa (New Zealand), who has an abiding love of the sea, and story-songs that include small mysteries. His poetry has been recently published in Black Bough Poetry, Burning House Press, and Pixel Heart Magazine, and has recently completed his first chapbook. @SeaGoatWhoScreamsPoetry on Facebook.