and in her
turning is
a turning
back to
the blue
lichen
and fleshy
moss dripping
from bare
trees where
wild gods sit
and play
songs on
white bone
she has
grown old
underneath
a silent moon
waiting for
something
that never
comes–
to be loved again
and as
her small
feet strike
stone a
note is
struck
on bone
white bone
that sings
of home–
a place she’s
never known 
In a desert
of mecury
nations of
unkept women
rest like squat
beetles on
all fours–
listening with
ears buttoned
to the ground.
They can
hear voices
echoing in
their heads,
whispering
of immolation,
hearts buring
in the afternoon,
birds soaring
in the sky.
There is no
comfort in
the keening
breeze, what
was blue
has turned
to red, falling
bombs have
gleaned their
husband’s bones
and left their
children dead.
you pick me up
and put me down
and strike a bow
across my strings–
there is no sound
there is no sound
where sound should
be–the music’s fled
the air outside
has grown too
hot the bombs
have left too
many dead–
black notes across
a littered street
what cannot sing
will never weep
rlmcdermott 