Zorba's Daughter: poems

Glass

[82] G L A S S Escape wraps her like a symphony half to come. She can only imagine the smell of April. Here are yellow bricks left over from a war that ended too soon. And fresh green grass too far away to tell. To reassure she speaks her name aloud. Petals and stems drop their rainbows on the floor, walk her body into daylight, into the terrors of her skin blossoming. She moves through doors where babies are safe and priests reveal murders of the soul to protect the innocent. There are no exits for desire. The blue heron folds its legs and flies over. The gaunt freedom in its wings’ slow dance affirms like a chill. No deliverance in sight. She investigates the chapel for a hint of an explanation. The sun blazing through an art deco window colors the host lifted up a Chinese red. ...