handfuls of air

And in that terrible moment, she holds

in her mind's eye a crimson tower

close as gravity grabs and twists

her fragile body down.

She slices through into cold shock

that warms as she sinks and slowly

uncurls, her hair searching

like tree roots, limbs stretching,

spreading her fingers farther than ever,

allowing foreign sediment into

the pores and toward the core,

into the aching lungs and heart,

into the benevolent dark.

These waters extract her impurities

in baptism before they spit her out

reborn, so light and floating up.

She opens her eyes

and swears she sees the stars.

She reaches out but cannot stay.

She falls through clouds, down, down,

condensing back into herself.

She is awake, alone, high up

on a rocky island surrounded

by rolling waves of restless trees,

emerging from her dreams, dizzy

and numb, her fiery hair damp

and swaying in a misty breeze

that slams the stubborn door shut

on the godforsaken shack behind her

and on her past, which drips

from her fingertips and stains

the dew-soaked grass red,

and her wails carry miles

but the steadfast trees absorb them.

And far below on a steep plowed field,

her tear lights on a woman's brow

as she searches, wringing her hands, screaming,

Where is my child; have you seen her?

She was right here. Where could she have gone?