after Emily Brontë & Emily Dickinson
Hope makes herself comfortable in the dark.
the moon has run away
Even if she looked up, she would not see
the sky but for the hairline crack
in the lid of the jar.
Her wings no longer flutter;
they collect dust like swollen sapphires
found glistening in riverbank silt.
she collects and cherishes loss
Hope listens to the misery outside
The shrill call of all gone wrong,
the Earth turned sideways
by thunderbolt bearing hands.
Hope makes herself comfortable in the silence.
Her singing voice nothing but space in an echo,
drowned by the incessant buzzing
and beating of loosed wings;
evil breathing whispers
upon the wind.
Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2020
My poetry collections: