The valley is blue, the mountains are deeper
An ocean of cold airless air silences the speaker.
Soft: the light breaks me, dear, must
She be left alone out there?
She rushes past the willow, the latticed yard
From the white bark house; she shivers resolutely layered
Against the wind so against the fire in the grate
Will not home come, yet
To welcome her nuptial calling.
Through the back roads and dusty purple bells
From star to star till the dusty trail ended
Across a freight running through town empty
His horrid smile different shades of whiskey
She wields his tire iron and breaks what she must break.
And grandmother, who is certainly a ghost now
Emits a perfume; a quickly dying scent that must be reapplied
Hides among a hill of trees and feels the bruises around her necklace
The low leaves showing stains of mascara.
In the winter neighborhood dogs cry outside
How silent it is between the hopeless howls
Silently, silently until the silence drowns them out.
She steps outsides. The ground cracks like crème brulee.
A face at the window begs her to stay.
And by her hair and gypsy cards she finds solace in the dead.
A specter to rival her own red room reflection
Reminds her in dreams what her grandmother said:
“Beat him soundly, the scent filled bed,
“The deep blue eyes begging to be lead.”
How wide the world outside our own
Yet how wide the wasteland we call out home.
Night has darkened the green highway signs
Once stating, “Try to leave, but you risk your life.”
She winds around the willow tree mauve, crinoline sashes
Hang from every stitch the words that so weigh her
She rubs the branches to reveal whitewashed plaster
And crowns her hair with olive leaves covered in mascara
To death – She spies the stars rising through tree cover
From the trunk where grandmother beat the bark with all the strength she could muster
Now the child takes the things that would enslave her
The dresses, the dishes, the love letters, saved newspapers
Herself surrounded, surrounded the tree
The roads outside tremor and the invisible sides of the mountain breathe:
Completing the alter of crinoline sashes
She pulls out her heart and a box full of matches.
The fire of freedom about her flashes.
From the smoke she rises to other mountain passes.



