Thunder-Edged — Rachel Dacus

Thunder-Edged
Sun under chin,
she rambles after them 
as they garden the hillside. 
Brushed with light, she rides
low among slim stems,
thunder-edged. 
Slipping through holes
in wind, she rolls
under a flower’s hem.
Buttercup, they call 
her, but tuck her into a null 
crib to listen to thin 
mosquito hours. Again 
and again, no one. 
The child’s ear hums 
with moon’s footfall
on the hill, a cloud-tall 
lady who kindles the lights.
By day, rolled up tight,
she is given to those who prick her 
scalp with needle fire. She blurs
and shrinks into thickets, 
rooting fists on stone.
In the shimmer of alone,
how she spins
light, how sparks flee 
the first wound, how it brims.