The Cursed Flower

She sits at the edge of the tide, the sky
bleaches the folds of her neck. The flowers in the skirt 

deceptive take colors from the house. She fashions a tunic
tasseled with strands of time when every event takes a step back.

As the weight of emptiness rests on the rosewood chair
her mind drops into the silenced bowl of the day.

The clock hands tremble with particles of constancy: the clover
fragrant in the smoked fish on the counter, the dust in air

fed by flecks of coal hefted from the stove as corn fobs
gyrate in the squall of hunger. The tongue of the Pandanus flower bears

the language of the silenced deity, she slices the rosette of curse
weaves the fragrant strand in her hair to stitch the gash of shame.

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