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.