Sara Wainscott

O My Moons
 

You were still you, hovering everywhere like dust.
I sewed a sequin to your coat but you could not hold on.
Envelopes falling in the slot, snow stinging down.

My liver ached but it was nothing. I've had some trouble
with the truth but now I'm queen of it, believe me.
Swans spread out across the lake till each was only swan.

In my chest, convulsing muscle moves the fog along.