Missing

With a collection of pins,

she practices, now fine tuned past forty years.

A tiny wax and balsa board requests

permission to take off.  Black

in sleep.  Arms not yet

clouds, they float between stars.

She always cried until vernal equinox returned.

Anyone who would listen thought so:

She’s torn.

An image, remote from us,

reveals the inert body of a child.

Sand shimmers in a clearing.

Who remembers what was said?

Her mouth moves but how unpronounceable

afterwards.  Six clay cups rest upon a table.

Mary-Marcia Casoly