You’d have to know the roots to understand the wonder in her wings
I’m music poured
down an open throat
when the Irish ghost walk
their bottles across my blood.
There’s a whole lot of dying early,
dust, bodies in a cell, and carving
wood into fiddles so feet won’t
forget to dance.
The nail crawl of bullet tongues
carve hell into tiny pieces so mouths
can learn to nibble before they chew
their tongues into misery.
Every sorrow earns a blue note
to string enough pearls wisdom won’t
die in ears morgue trained to let
negative roost in the heart’s nest.
My bone thin hands steal
flesh from echoes so my limb
of the family tree can leaf words
where names will no longer bud.
©Susie Clevenger 2018