A surrealist's mindgarden forms

in front of my squinted eyes

I, the blasphemed daughter, wait

in silence for my judgement's call, and

(as I put a cap on upward motion)

experience stills my anger.

Stoic porcelain figure, I

(cool to the ever-absent touch of) a

mother's hand of justice.

My sisters and father, they speak

Their Own Language above my ears;

while my mind slips over the meanings

I assign importance to each breath.

For a handful of sunny days I

let my imperfections lay bare

Now, cold seeps into the furrows and

I am cracked open like a glass jar.

Even the raindrops have deserted me.

Cold-stinging bites of retribution remind

of the ever-present storm clouds (as

I silently rue the return of my

five-day-absent ghost)

Flower petals (flung open like windows to

catch the breeze) recall themselves

And I, wary as a Chinese fortune, follow.