Poetry by Jillian Briglia
The weather vane spins the mermaid,
the feather, and the star,
like a spider web with dew,
like raindrop beads on a necklace.
The gray Mississippi river runs along muddy banks.
The nightingale lives in a gold-rimmed wine glass,
a stem as delicate as her daughter’s bones.
A flaking crescent moon dips
into a pot of boiling navy blue,
and the nightingale
decides to nibble on the corners.
The crumbs fill her stomach,
the buttered powdery pastry
slowly turns to cotton,
but instead of iced tea and summer,
she is full of fog.
She stops breathing and her daughter does, too.
The moon waters the moor below,
brown tears like tea, tries to sing itself to sleep.
The mermaid winks,
dives off her weather vane,
and swims into the gray Mississippi.