An Adopted Requiem
Lizzy Swane

like the broken heart of the desert’s harmonica
swinging strange fruit lost from the vine or
21 years of slumber at the Patmos Inn, her moan
i can hear through the press of wine, the hiss
of yeast and fermentation; archipelago
and thrombosis, the poem of black tresses,
a babes waves, a coo written and unread
for the unbreaking of bread and an empty plate

Lizzy Swane remains silent, sows critique or kudo as musts need. Send your pleasure to