Red river conveying women’s hearts
in baskets.
Through windy reeds, a foreign song.
Will the king open up the window sash
to let the lonely wail of bereft
motherhood curl up at his fire
like an unloved cat?
Sitting on the riverbank,
the queen of carnage
sees one glitter.
Wades in.
My private demon is winning
My wine hazy spirit.
The sunset cools
on a small snowfall.
The shining light,
it’s always washed in bleach.
Endless beach,
tears.
Sometimes we cry for our own sake,
cold,
and there are no boxes to contain
our needy mouths.
We all have been an empty harvest.
We have not been sown.
It’s easy,
to breathe tears into the body,
eyes to see.
In the fireplace,
every representative of the land.
Miniature Moon 