The stars, they say

are a woman’s diadems,
strings of milky agate

and bits of polished bone
she stripped from her hair
and gleaned from the altar

fashioned of her clavicle.
It’s hard to see them now—
but they’re there, swimming

in the onyx currents
above reach, speckled bands
she once hung in the arms

of trees. She took them off
because of the weight
of timeless things.

Bar, space, bar
above her breasts.
Once light-filled hollow.

Clouds of golden chaff
with every swing of the pestle:
so close, so bound to earth.


In response to Via Negativa: Unlikely.

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