She moves through time and place without hint of physical effort.
Her neck is sensuous in its turning.
Rises on the surface, wings beating silently, near meeting in prayer.
Calls to her children lost over centuries.
Her wail reaches down.
Fish and Feverfew
Recalling Rose Adam’s art.
I remember a bird-beaked fish.
Lying long and prone on a slab of canvas.
Sleek length of flesh, pink blush.
Head side-lying to the left.
One eye flash frozen.
With an elegant twist
she is looking back with half her vision,
looking for the pearls of her offspring.
They have dispersed;
perhaps never existed.
Would I recognize mine? Was there a daughter?
scales flaking off my skin
floating away like drowning fireflies.
Sometimes the waves are restless
and I glimpse light
reflected off particles of my life.
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