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she was born in a dark room during a February sunset
so she called the night her hometown. and the
anthem of her bones was glass chiming, the clatter
of plates, quiet meal times spent wishing to sink through
the floor. and the evenings drove her home, to
Mother Moon’s wide-stretched moonbeam arms,
to her sisters sparkling like champagne fizz kisses,
and the mornings drove her to distant lands, desert
skies and sand-scorched tarmac mirages of oasis
palm-tree-pretty boys. she daydreamed about falling into
rainclouds’ bellies, of being cried out as a March drizzle,
of flooding the worn, beat-up bends of her little city’s highway.
she spent the days half-asleep and the nights half-awake,
watching her sisters blink silently back at her, and she would
smile even though she knew that if they died, she wouldn’t
realise for millenniums, and that was a blessing, she thought,
that was a blessing.