Aspects of Amelie by Allison Flory

Amelie walks with a harkening bird screech soundtrack.
She jumps from train track to train track without first checking to see if she still has
feet. She’s more than militantly traced the lines of thrice folded maps,
more than gorged on silkworm and wasp crackers.

Her voice, honeyed and guttural, sparks the foresight of ancient tongues,
she hears in quiescent color, sees in smoldering smell.
She hasn’t brushed her hair in weeks; it falls rapidly at her skeletal waist.
Amelie evokes the presence of ghosts not yet passed, ghosts that will.

Two hawks flank her shoulders.
The forest listens for her midnight howl.
The storm waits for her thunderous clap.

Amelie is gentle in her peculiarities.
She forgives the giant for being slayed, pardons the tide in her wake.
It’s easy to bathe in the River Styx when the water laps longing at her steelclad boot.
It’s easier to rest when the world falls silent at will.

Easiest of all to rise in the morning,
towing the sun on her back.