Her body will break like a jar,Spilling the contents of
Pickled words, candied-ginger
Filling the base of a saucer like
Rocks cast into a Seer’s pond.
Her words are vessels,
Cargo ships split by seams with
Motives tacked to cork boards
Falling apart, she opens her
Mouth, nothing right comes out.
Her eyes are the soul,
Cerulean blue lines on a map
Clay basin of a dried up crick where
Compasses with eager needles
Never point South of
Her thinned lips clamping
Fractured irises cut words into
Confetti before they’ve the chance
To make their escape.