Sister
our sister shines, burns, sings,
while we, our limbs tangled
in dripping sheets, mouths too numb
to breathe, find ourselves sinking,
the hollow wings adorning our shoulders
filling up with heavy, heavy hearts,
but still she shines, chimes.
Might These be Angels?
What is it the geese are shouting?
They pump across the piebald August sky
clamourous as a gaggle of gossips
at the fish market. There’s nothing shy
about these geese. You ask their opinion
and they give it, ask their blessing
and they exclaim hosannas to heaven.
