By Deborah Diemont

i.
Her toes shaped like teardrops,
her fingers splayed,
she curled and played possum
on the lines of my hand.

ii.
I couldn't toss her back,
a tiny fish into the river,
unhook her rosy lip and say,
Your lungs must two-fold bloom.

iii.
I sing hush-a-bye
against the valley of death
where she fights shadows
with sand dollar hands.

iv.
On her belly: a gold token,
just enough to pay her passage
to the ferryman who brought her
into the crimson light.

v.
All winter, whiteness hovered
with its animal breath;
Her eyelids flickered
till pink magnolias came.

vi.
Each night the hourglass emptied
at midnight, two, and four.
Into her lily mouth,
I drained my body's nectar.

vii.
Her eyes are rolling amulets.
The cleft above her lip
marks where the angel hushed her,
Don't give away your secrets.

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