Waxed Lachrymose

by Sarah E. Colona

I discerned, obscurely, a child’s face
looking through the window

—Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

Somersault of fog.
Winter’s chill hidden within

Wood smoke. Gorse. Clove.
My wild one wore

A cloak of ravens,
A harlequin mask of lead.

From her lips,
Stilled bees fell—

Browned blossoms. Soft patter.
Twisted iridescence.

Wicked little soul,
I’m come home.


At present, Sarah Elizabeth Colona finds herself caught between New Jersey and Virginia. You may find her poems in past issues of Cabinet des Fées and Jabberwocky.


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