A Necklace of Tougues
All morning she sits
stitching a necklace of tongues
in her high window,
picking each inert slab
from the shallow porcelain dish
holding its brass-cold weight
muted as a muffled bell
heavy in the dip of her open palm.
Last night snow flakes
melted like kisses,
like salt
on their warm skin,
now her silver needle
pushes through the thick-muscled
root trussing each
glossal silence
with meticulous petit point.
If a worm has five hearts,
and an angel none,
how many tongues
does it take to tell lies
about love?
But for now she can only wait,
passing the leaden hours
with herringbone and cross stitch.
Later in front of her mirror of ice
she will lift the cold carrion
like a queen's fringed torque,
place it in the soft dip
at the base of her throat,
making visible the muted words,
that wounded song of herself.