She was perfect pitcher,

Cooled glass and ice center,

Crystal all her own bounty:
Solid hammer, extended bat broken

Cam, when is delicate fist

Worth more than peacock tailed

Beauty fanned against face?
She is not safe.

No one is safe

From the break.
Her grandmother was a witchdoctor

seafoam green eyes and muddy skin

the earth shook when she spoke
islands out of the sea, a place called home.
She is not safe.

No one is safe

From the break.
The sun perched between her thighs

A gown of silk and spit sways against

The winds exhale, she asks the sky
To return her purple labia in exchange

For the low hum she remembers rattled

At moon once the sun burned out, but now
All she can hear is the whir and click of

Her unhinged ribs stringing themselves back 

Together in the shape of an open mouth: 
she will devour each star until rendered black.
She is not safe.

No one is safe 

From the break.
Her daughter wears a crown around her neck

one lone dove in the palm of her hand

she names it after her father's fallen eyelash.
A bundle of sage burns at her feet

smoke twists towards her gathered ten,

she stops listening to her mother chewing heat
long enough to catch the birds last breath.

A copper leash patterned after still

heart of her grandmother’s dust swings 
in mimic of smoke, proven ancestry.
She is still not safe.

We are still not safe

From the ache.                          
We form ourselves indigo diamonds

Anyway.