Nothing Told Twice

She's young and feeding
a rope shaped of seconds,
knottong a bowl of bombshell
blonde swans, that bring
mirrors, to sing the mind
of a lacerated child, leaving her
tethered to bite some surgery.

Years ago she was chucked
over the TV, curious images of her
head on the floor and her legs
dangling in the airwaves above
the Saturday morning show,
like bruised antennae waving
a path to the magic; hand enchantments
in the harvest time that culled her.