She wears the sound of water.
A cannibal with garlands in her hair.
Finger print scars on her wrist bones,
she walks on the earth with fish-scaled feet.
She is hatred at peace and a life not a peace.
The wrong side of nowhere, watching as if through a window pane -
a bride's veil of almost-translucent wax paper.
She is, and is not.
She is frenzied stasis.
A running, flying but ending dream.
Oh, she is this most of all.
And she knows it.