Image © Alexander James
My hands wired all around her skin.
Preparations swirling with a two hand clock in her hair,
turning into a potent bun.
The calm northern winds, making the front door flutter
into a satisfied smile
and then, her sudden disappearance
into the black, for a mission.
Now each day I wake in that broken room. Boom!
She blasts herself into a hundred pigeons.
Few die in colors, a few remain,
hooting on my death.