Miranda

18

BORN MAROON

We kept a bucket in our kitchen doorway
to catch each note from the window chimes.

They danced like tiny drooping petals
each one falling with the strength of an oar

slicing through the quiet morning speeches
we gave.

From Summer’s morning breath
came plumes of ancient shadow dust.

We caught it with our sticky tongues,
born maroon

and black from last nights coffee.
Tiny wilting pebbles

bounced from the bucket and splashed our heels
in ichor.

Sweet Chartreuse spilled from the wounds.