.Were We Not Marionettes

I bend
as
she bends,
arms a graceful
bridge of mourning—

our eyes
rippling plains of remembrance.
(but at least we remember)


I lean beside
her,
both hopeless
heaps of wood
and string;


 pirouettes fall
 in time to blurry
 rivers

 and irises plead
 only as allowed:

 moisturizing this
 shell of
 splintered skin.