​J Michael Walker

Anita arrives on the green ray in July

moonstones, her mother’s face. Eyes of water

asking for release. Disappointment, betrayal

births a weary sadness. He holds his arms

like kindling for the fire. Hands tied

feet bound, world’s weight on her body.

Dreams split, a penalty

for not looking within. An alcove

still untouched, a chant, a soft flute,

to the tiny space in the heart.