Blue Metal

Our love would refuse to be stringed by the spheres; ordered or named as Orion. Our love would not make it's home a Mason Jar.

Our love is still, a moment, the swallowtail's rest in a bird bath. Our love is still and silent: the flute crying.

Marble-winged, I am yours, and was yours before the metamorphis of my purple, my copper, my green, my blue metal.

It was then that you sang my name and unraveled this silky silver prison of mine. It was then that you would speak in breezes of spring; echoes of Jasmine Stars blossoming in the night.

Oil spilt and puddles rang the bells of the moon's tears . You sang and willow branches were violins.

Suddenly I grew rainbow veins and sunset wings. Petals pulling me to life...to a sapphire night.

Now I follow your electricity through the stratosphere; stopping only for star showers as you conquer constellations. We dodge nets and death, sulphur and shadow-boxes, the swallow of the seagull and the sun.

Somehow we escape those scripts our world rehearses. Flying without names. Blossoming without order. Somehow, we love.

-Sharon Marjorie Barbour-