How odd it was

her skin growing hollow

a sheepskin drum

hungry in the night.


And the days were hers alone.

Days of quiet

steps along hardwood.

Days sprawled across her funeral pyre

shielded from the dull morning light,


clutching her lover’s knife

as she watched the ships set sail.


Her hands fumbled with one another curiously


Her back pressed against the cool glass


wandering across her island prison

feeling the sand between her toes


Her hair fanned out about her head

She stood.

Her toes pressing against the porcelain floor


rising from the sea

sheathed in ivory foam.

How odd it was

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