Smithereens Press Chapbooks Atoll by Dylan Brennan | Page 16

Hollow and dead, the carp-eyes of severed heads
are blurred by translucent membranes of cobwebs –
spinneret-gland silk, like myself, grown old and grey.
The canals under the clouds of a violent August.
I am as the wandering woman that I’ve feared since birth –
a llorona of the daytime, visible trails of whispers in my wake.
Lately I’ve seen the warm fingers of a siren beckon
from beneath a seeable-down-into surface.
She knows where my first doll plays. I will go to her.

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