Ash
In your poems I hear the devils’ trill,
and isn’t that the charm?
In your eyes I see volcanic ash,
love, isn’t that the draw?
I listen to Neruda in His native tongue,
it makes me thirsty, yet all I have is tears
I have a tattoo of Shelly’s heart on my hip,
I dreamed you were a cloven feathered dove
and you came and pecked at the heart,
leaving a wound, but I still wasn’t angry, love
In your poems I hear the devil’s trill
and Joan of Arc ablaze,
I listen to Neruda in his native tongue,
the ash in your eyes like the Rio Azul
*Melanie Browne is a poet and fiction writer living in Texas. Her words can be found across the net. She likes Whiskey. Google her.
