by Nora Kirkham
The dragonfly was my mother tongue,
it perched, glittering in my mouth.
Every night, I walked home
to a going-home song,
and a rabbit danced inside a moon
as tadpoles spun into spring.
I sang about all of these things
before the dragonfly flew away.
The only word left is akatombo.
That red dragonfly catches me
like a flower bud blossoming
in the back of my throat.
If I knew the rest, could I return?
Could I string myself back together
like a line of lanterns to relight the sky?
Nora Kirkham is a poet and fiction writer based in Scotland. Originally from Maine, she was raised in Japan, Australia, and Romania, and has also studied in Italy, Ireland, and the UK. She has an M.Litt in Theology and the Arts from the University of St. Andrews and an MA in Creative Writing from University College Cork. https://norakirkham.tumblr.com/
