New Words

  

Somehow, many years since,

I fell asleep on the washing pile,
and knew not of all the dangerous miles I would tread
before I awoke. The woman spoke
to me only, in dragon’s tongues,
from that day until the end,
lending me no more
than glimmers of time
to tease my heart and tempt
me, this to remember: How can a child
love Christmas morning,
when they live in perpetual
December? With snow on their soul
and icicles,
that hang there even in June; that have never asked
for all the things
they know now, they were owed and due…due perhaps,
but not deserved;
no gentleness of tender words to teach her
how to love;
only left herself, to discover
what it means
to give, and touch in velvet gloves;
this sleeve, this shell,
some cursed, pretty angel’s
spell has always hidden the worst
and it wasn’t safe to lift them,
instead she sat
among the grains and salt to sift them
through fingers that sought to cherish,
and shoot like a lost little bird,
something to come
and claw at its door
and instruct it to speak new words, of giving,
and gentleness,
blessed it with
a much-wanted caress to share
and stall others from the same…and so, a thousand
names were whispered here,
all tender, all beautiful, all clear as
their crystal hearts,
and all of them taking little parts,
of the words
to make their worlds turn and be whole,
all of them leaving little marks,
that cleansed and freed a bound and selfish, 
blackened,
unclean soul.