By Ellen Shelley
You watch
as shadows wear you
as ink dries hard up inside the stone.
Tombs collapse
with their dialect of truths,
force eyes open.
Amongst the rubble
you rummage for strength,
not confined
but inside your owned curve.
You wonder
how it would feel
to know …
As the sweep of skirts
expose new ground
& ankles carved from kneeling
find their own
place of skin,
you pick at words
sharpened from before.
But in the end
the solace of scriptures
speak in child’s dreams,
with your voice.