Amalie@kua

We call it: “catastrophe,” as if —  it is different.

A child nursed of negligence.

Yes, it is not ours —

In the skeletal frame of a fence, 

nestled deep in the overgrown wiring,

Where vines wind up and veins wrap down: 

a ribcage, constructed by their love, nurtures love. 

And your dark, knotted hair falls, 

   trailing along and settling 

        in the crevice of collarbone, 

ravine of spine,  

The silence that once spread

in the deepest of winter, is ever so often

broken.

Hear the robin's hope

now, unfurling faintly on a frozen breeze. 

We were rising.

With every thread tied together, by those who wanted to catch hold —

Those with knotted breath and clasped hands 

Weaving together a dream, cast out into a sea of stars —