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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