it is time to begin burning -- Maggie Frozena

bells ring
sprung across in black and bright sometimes
heard coming down the stairs
glasses banging against themselves in cupboards

whispering somewhere in the house

and it is not quiet inside
lights flicker through arms and fingers

when the wind comes off the water
ice grows around green stems and eyes
hurt with no sun in a room that should be dark

it is the blessing hour
the plants are done
the sun that hit the land
the hammer that hit the hand

fingers spattered and black
paper curls pinned to dresses
breathing time needlework pounded to the walls

letters hidden in the flood of the palm
turn bright and cool on the windowsill
hands wrapped quietly about themselves

here is the singing, a wreath made with hair
a debt hiding in the seams
hands smoldering whenever they touch

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