Secret Arsonist


At the end of a glass eye—Omens—
Only the cold
echoes: the bride streaks down
a castle
corridor, her trailing veil
the ice-tail
of a comet etched in black
linoleum.
Perfume rises from the portrait
necks, glow
from the polished oak a slow
bleeding
from beneath the fingernail—
The sheets
have waited. When will the hornets,
when from
the tangled orchard arms like a dark
tiara? Girls
lead by a ribbon in the frozen
rows. One,
a kaleidoscope in her pocket; one,
glass beads
on a string. Posed, the earth holds
the moon
from its face—eye looking back
on the black
socket. How can you say—mine?



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