The Groke

 

We lay under overcast scene
and she spells

out each wound, heavy and swollen,
they pour like black ink from her collarbones,
and fall, wet the kind the sky
could only wish would stream,

there's laughter
lulled on a wing, carried from the circle
just beyond the bunting,
harp made for healing,

her amulet glows,
body cocooned, lit by a Sun,
shroudedly setting, we talk about ground,
the shades of our earth signs.

When her sister arrives,
fiercesome and golden,
hue of her pride,
I let the tides shift.

Energy is exhaled, floats to the womb,
and I hold the weightedness
we both stretched bare,
write with it, read with it, until the moonshine.