Day Nine
Her heart's been salted. Hung to dry in the
Curing house and smoked, and cut with cold-clove,
Naked garnet. Once it thumped like rabbit
Feet, a ship with banks of oarsmen heaving,
Once it leapt and was intoxicated,
Or it sang and shook its feathers like a
Magnificent Riflebird, mad with the season.
She outlived the winter of miracles.
No-one knows the ways in which her heart is
Peppered, rare and sweet with hot, juice-blooms of
Serious blue. And none will feel the flutter
Of her wild and apple-green abandon.
Her heart's been seasoned. Oak-aged, raw in salt.
And she will not let any creature eat.
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