Forsythia

Baby born in amber, sun-
set ready on the horizon pinned in yellow
with the stars gorged below: bad sign, good
lie – it's all the same. She doesn't mind;
holds her hands to the skies to test for rain
and all those lost words that flow fluvial
through the bright vein of constellations;
hesitations of sound and light. Her head's
veiled in night, but her heart's planted firmly
in the earth – it breaks white water, roots
through rock. Finger on the pulse,
she holds the haunted whorl of a seashell
to her ear, and without fear,
treads earth's threadbare carousel laced in dulce,
spitting dreams at the seams. Forsythia –
how her puckered mouths scream. Half-choked,
riddled with ghosts, she leaves nothing
but a trace of rabbit feet
pressed in dust. But she'll survive.
She peels back rust and pulls
the socketed stars from the sky, milking
chaste tears from angel-eyes, and unravelling
faith to reveal the blunt, worm-sucked bones beneath –
dragon's teeth and the lean face
of an earthenware god,
picked clean.