There is a deep trembling
at the foot of this year’s throne.
The bruises pale,
the pressed teeth of their wounding
A sea of grass
is wound like ribbons through her hair,
has grown around her shape
until any fool
could see she grew out of this same soil
that is taking her back.
The birds claim
strands of her to soften the nests
of their children.
Her body becomes
a piece of gold stuck
in the throat of a sparrow.
Which is worth more,
the coin clutched in a bloody hand
or the voice around it, singing.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 2.
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