30
LONG CONFINEMENT
They never came back—her angels. They flew
and green glass didn’t shatter. Those thin wires
sliced them but divine blood stayed in place
and wings ferried them off. Days are silent.
Her window’s haunted by old wooden spoons.
Her mother’s ghost waits, humming an old tune.
She remembers all the words she once spent
on felonies. Her alibi’s erased
by green light. She’s misplaced whispered desire.
Nothing in this room is shiny or new.
Ancient clocks are fixed at an evil noon.
There are no sounds. The season’s always Lent.
She feels falling shards where she wore her face.
Even the mirror calls her a liar.
Past care, she rocks, missing the color blue,
black shoes, dresses with wings, but her clues
are lined up neatly as forgotten choirs.
She knows how to wait, how to sit, to pace,
to pray. One miracle they can’t prevent:
Her angels will come back—soon, soon, too soon.