Joanna Ashwell
Hand signals
The wind makes the branches bloom silver
clearing her throat in the well of night.
A new moon shadows of two perfect halves
white wings spreading the word of darkness.
Only the underworld can hear
and they rock to the pulse -
a quickening of desire
ruffling their lost souls.
We see them streak the sky
flame across the dry parchment of barren fingers.
This is the raw fist of truth
opening and closing
with each beat of a passing live heart.
Page(s) 62
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