The Fieldstone Review

Indigo Child

Virgo bandies about
the moon again.
Snowflakes like little boulders.
The strength of it
gentler
in the blushed grey.
Ebbs like a woman might
beneath a man.
The old secrets unfolding
in the underbelly of boot.
Someone in the living
room is drunk.
Old Crow and the billowing
veil of night.
Velvet suit weighted
by wet stars.
Kissing Rowan
on the root chakra.
“Give me the pen, dear,
it’s suicide.”
Smell of slippery elm
in the pantry.
Grandmother’s swing of pendulum
when old clock runs dry.
Moment when knuckles measure
scarred face with a violent tenderness.
Cheekbones of a peacock’s strut.

The old breed.