Today at the library, I met the insect lady.

It wasn’t that she was an insect exactly

but she was wearing this white silk blouse

covered completely with pictures of insects.

I rinsed their thin skins

thoroughly wringing out

the old ghosts

from their cotton crotches

and lace trim.

I wish you the cool clean whiteness of shells,
the sacredness of bones,
the memory of flight that leaves its signature in the feather.

Language was a song she sang
while she rode her bike
up and down the hill
a melody tattooed its signature
across her shoulders

Did you know it takes one bee’s entire life to make a single drop of honey?

The wind blows through the child’s hair and each tendril turns into a striped snake that sings in its own language.

Ghosts whisper as the door creaks closed and the red moon rises and the long snake stretches her back as you ride her curves, learning your own center.

In the forge of my will, I melt myself down. In the white hot heat of hurt, the last embers of survival roll over in surrender.

I felt the first pang of summer’s end, the way the darkness begins to outshine the light.

Surrender to the dust
all day and all night
the white witch
sugars my skin