(Medea’s Song)
after St Augustine and Emily Dickinson

                                       I
She remembers islands. An archipelago shaped
like a meniscus. Grids that refuse language

Some idea of happiness


                                       II
Her task is to unstitch time, lay it on the beach
in bolts of raw, unpicked cotton

the women singing
the hobbled syntax of exile

Her gaze rakes
the horizon                                   She is seeking the
books
packed in leaky crates
                                       vulnerable as turtles
making a run for the sea


                                     III
She remembers doves. Kings leaping
...