There's an older magic to this serenading of soft sisters then you or I am a part of;
older then the magic of poetry,
and penury, because,
when the dawn rises we become as poor as pirate wives,
or wise as philosophers,
philanthropists pulling graffiti across eyeballs,
awoken in the night from dream schemes of the house on Mcgilvra;
awoken with those paint chips fat and poisonous on our tongues.
Wood smoke tastes of hungry loss,
and loose change in our pockets,
or a white table cloth pulled down low on one side
so as to make a tent for us to hide under.
There are glittering pearls where you're fingernails used to be,
and when you turn to find me in the night
(the bed one of us has crawled into) my eyelids
have morphed into seashells,
when you kiss them you can taste the ocean,
hear the battering scuttle of a girl who never learned to run.
It's an older magic then language,
older then the languid luster of girl-flesh in the woods,
or a troupe of tight rope walkers skimming the flat end of a cast aside log on the beach.
It's who we are, though also, much older.