Mary

She has a drunken vulnerability,
Former Persil choirgirl carrying notes to her own funeral,
octane-charged beyond her nineteen years,
and focused green in some far off place.
Cocooned spirit, encased in a life-rust
between the skeletal fog of war zones;
between living alone and real loneliness.

STANZA

In bloodshot clusters of stained glass
I hear the percussion of imploding cells,
as rain begins to fall from a hopeless sky,
moving like stones over millennia.

STANZA

And, as you leave the legacy of the sound of your footsteps,
and go to a corner where hearts begin to sweat,
and entrails begin to writhe,
I remember your eyes brightening into mine,
before the needle-tapestry of your days
weaved the sail of your tryst with death.

***

c. Ivan Sanders, 2025