Time points down to a fleshless skull; memory
preserved and resting; safely nestled
inside a uterine lining; still echoing
daily; a ghostly cry; crows
feed inside flexible hips,
empty but for the
grey ash of time.
I wish for the
and dried out on
a white windowsill;
l keep it for some time
with tufts of dead cats’ fur;
black, grey, and orange, neatly
tucked into small squares of a large
mahogany jewellery box; handmade
against my wishes the colour fades like a drug.
Crimson wax flows; laying pysanka* in a pattern of
stars and double-helixes; dripping in moons of
rose-tinted honey held in the comb, then
released; in a spontaneous flush- out.
Unexpected and without any explanation; ‘just a glitch, really.’
Occasionally, I still consult lunar charts to see
my waning windowsill of opportunity.
One hundred and eight moons
have passed counting
my heart to conjure
a kindred soul.
Posted for dVerse OpenLinkNight # 25 www.dversepoets.com
*Pysanka is the art of Ukrainian egg decorating. A pen-like instrument is used to draw patterns on an egg with beeswax. The egg is then dyed, the wax removed, and the colourful pattern displays against the egg’s natural colour. The process can be continued in multiple layers of design and colour. During the time of this poem’s event, I made many of these eggs, not for any religious meaning at all, but because I loved preparing the eggs, creating the patterns, and living the process.