Joanna Ashwell
Fractures
There are traces of a lost life down here;
hollow sockets have wept and seen too much.
This cage of ribs folded like paper tags,
arms splayed to thread into gutted gulls.
Mowed down from the rim of the sky’s limit;
spread to form crashed angels of a lost war.
The mouth would once have been crammed full
not petrified to a stone strung silence.
This cacophony of wild winds plays the bones
rattling their rigidity to an overcast die.
Open fractures sizzle in whistle-dry heat
and the sun slinks away like a scolded cat.
Page(s) 46
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