between the mountains surrounded by the sea.
islands are better for reclusive types.
she wore white,
believing it was the color if passion.
she was passionate about many things.
he had wings.
he liked to sail on the updrafts from the balmy sea air
paperwhite feathers spread in greeting.
boats are hard to float in
when your guilt will make you sink.
the black water will lap at your black heart
she always knew what she had done.
so she stood in her cottage,
white draperies surrounding,
not facing what had happened
borne back ceaselessly against the black water current.
bird boy.
angel boy.
snowy wings and pale face,
ebony hair and inky blood.
borne back ceaselessly against the white wind.
she spun things with her fingers,
long and lythe.
glittering gossamer fabrics,
shattering spinneret songs.
he landed on the porch,
against the sandalwood.
shattering spinneret songs
pounding on his obsidian eardrums.
"i'm not ready!" she told
her angelic executioner.
"there's more i have to do."
he shook his onyx head.
"i don't make bargains."
the starless blade was ready in his fingers.
"i'll make a trade with you,"
she said earnestly.
as if she didn't understand
that trades and bargains are nearly the same.
it was really a deal in the end.
her life
for 365 turnings of shattering spinneret songs.
for 365 turnings
he landed on the on the porch,
against the sandalwood.
for 365 turnings
the island heard the music
of shattering spinneret songs.
and for 365 turnings
she and he
forged something.
and his blood became less inky,
his hair a little less ebony,
their hearts a little less hopeless,
her black water clearer,
his obsidian eardrums lighter,
her white dress a little more bright.
and it came to be
365 turnings had passed.
"i'm not ready!" she told
her angelic executioner.
"neither am i,"
said he.
so they ran.
against the current,
borne back ceaselessly against the past.
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