Tanny Flies Home
The sun rose revolving around the storm.
Her body was borne forth on firmament’s cusp,
suspended where, not form, but color, reigned-
where clouds writhed like a nest of blood black asps.
To return only meant a different bed;
and did not correct loss. Blanketed blue,
Her gray legs hung still from the hips as lead.
Asleep, she flew; dark partners’ pas de deux.
Moon in hoary window hung like a skull.
Her cheek clung to the bone and, she too, peered.
Jewels gleamed below, haematic yellow, dull.
It was New York. Her mother in the mirror.
The brackish strip lassoed us like a noose;
She grounded but the landing was a ruse.