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the sky a blooming canticle

sings sweetly little bird

washing clean over the halls

from the pulpit of her perch

heavy serpent veil

low from a woodland arch

watery eyes spellbind from a slit

not weeping but stirred

with stillness like an ember

every bitter thing disgorge

a crack and she’s ensnared

just a drip for the serpent’s thirst

adder wrapped and clung tight

caves in to a humming dirge

with her last breath squeezed out

she’ll harmonize the first

for what sin sick hand could they play

in the drawing of their birth