The Girl Who Cried Cups by Tim Moder
The girl who cried cups is apparent. She is ablaze in the fire of expectation. She is poised to practice patience, while sand runs through her hands. Her dress is lit with fleur de lis, and pomegranates to push through delicate soil.
The girl who cried cups reads swords for entertainment. She stretches over candlelight in parades of incense towards a mirror that clouds with breath each time she whispers what she hesitates to sing.
The girl who cried cups is forever forgetting the arrangement of stars. She calls fertility like an auctioneer speaking in riddles. Understanding apparitions in light flashes across her open veil.
The girl who cried cups is in love with crowds and throngs of disciples at summer festivals. She sits astride fountains, casting coins into tomorrow wishing over blurred voices for a memory or a new dream.
The girl who cried cups decorates her skin with scars and buries her treasures in lines. She disguises her screams as carefree sighs, and swims through desolate streets at sunrise praying for the motion of swift wings.
The girl who cries cups is awake to possibility in exponential orbit. She becomes the stars at night. Limitless incantations of names and constellations wrapped around myths of seasons and cycles.
The girl who cried cups believes in laughter as a longing protest, or confession of the unborn. She calls for the old gods to lay down their crowns at the feet of the unbelievers. Her eyes are wet with wishes.
The girl who cried cups can reach to heaven when music echoes from the walls and pushes into her, through her footprint, into carpet, out into April skies of fire.
The girl who cried cups is blind as cupid. She writes by starlight and receives a blessing. She practices Asarte against a pantheon of armour. Her Arrows stray from face to face and find their rest in throats of Nightingales.
The girl who cried cups is upside down with passion. She is pulling roses from thorns, spreading petals over stony ground. She covers the world with dizziness, soft caresses, and rough hot kisses. Her prayers are spoken in blood.
The girl who cried cups has crooked sisters three. Adorned in shadows they beckon to her, teeth and all, and with the winds swollen voice they call to her while she continues to recite the names of Nantosuelta.