My guardian doesn't lift me up high;
she tucks my feet into the solid ground,
reminding me there's comfort when you know
not all the land is sharpened and unsound.
My guardian doesn't smell like rosebuds,
or distant, holy petals: soft and pure.
Her musk changes with breezes and the bugs.
It's always strong and striking at its core.
My guardian's too clumsy to wear white,
and too excited to sound without sin,
but the black keeps me warmer in the night,
and emotion may soak into my skin.
But, best of all, when she draws me back close,
her halo melts the frost that keeps me host.
YOU ARE READING
Catherine
Poesi'Lines marry stars making constellations in the dark, yet my line has cut straight through my heart.' An anthology trying to make sense of the darkness in all its forms.
