Faberge screams echo in
Silk-shaded halls in the
Broken palace that sits upon
The hill prone to mud slides
When torrents befall it.
Pop music and barbarous taunts
Filled her days and blinded
Rusted nails sewn to her hands,
Belted waist constricts
Appetites unnatural
As she waltzes off-beat
Through the corridors.
Halcyon storms tearing benches
That marked nothing that
Could be marked
Except in astronomer’s books
And charts of stars
Found in the shimmer
Of her coal-colored locks.
Sleeves too long to sieve
Clumps of flour and ego
That cannot rise because
The chef was too poor to buy
Yeast for his mix,
Crafting small bricks
Of dough and necessity
To construct his masonic track.
She bleeds from her eyes
Milk left to sour in silver buckets
Out by the wooden porch
While ice idyllically stabs
The earth from which
It never came,
Not that it was aware of.
Her breath smells of
Musty books from forgotten
Shelves in a disheveled library;
Her exhalations betray her
Learned stature and blindfolds
A sense that everything is
Right for what it’s worth
Given the mild seizures
Brought on by nightmare steeds.
Frozen evenings sing along
With pale machinations of
Men tied with strings to
Clock hands that tell no time,
That hold no hearts,
That trump no suits or suitors,
All on the face that reflects
That starved gaze
Of the girl in the hall with
Ribbons tied to her feet.
Composed 07/10/2012
Author’s Note: My host sister was an interesting person. She had the longest hair I think I’ve ever seen. It went all the way down to her ankles. Watching her try to wash it was always harrowing. She wasn’t shy, but she also wasn’t talkative. Her life was always busy with housework, unlike her brother, who spent the mornings and afternoons running around town with his friends. I wish my Mongolian had been better, so I could have asked her opinions about life in the countryside. Alas.
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