This is the dropped hour- glass-the dark glitter of silted stars, the shiftless sand of a life left true in a shallow box. The small shell whitens like the tight fist of a lost doll. The footfalls pass, a light wind in the wooden sandal. Listen to the shadows sink in the last suck of the black pacifier. Look at the sky locked up in the sea, in a cage of paper wings. Oh, look at all the angels flattened against the rocks. This, the dry butterfly: the half-blue eye, half-brown of the child, drowned. Copyright © Sahar Tchaitchian. |