From the Fishouse

for vocalist Urna Chahar-Tugchi

urna sculpts a thousand horses of dust, wind
flayed ribs
naked on the steppes, unutterable lullaby

to the gale, a tempest flower.
she keens for the lonely arc we leave
our little ones,

desert wails for the breach of each birth:
desecrated silence.
bless me with your wept howl

molting foal, mare shying from the bit.
incant sand
to rain the clarity of your cry

tenseless
incessant