Hollow

A sharp slice of memory
sluices her toe-tips,
a jab of jade
which creeps
and cups her heels
in opulent folds,
coercing her.

A juice infused with malachite
and shattered emeralds,
the liquid vineyard
where crystal drinks
flow cold
and in abundance,
parches her.

A spillage and spoil of
spectral brides
in shredded lace
with flaxen hair
and ivory veils
and sugared frills
melt around her.

In salty, silvered digs
she sinks through sand,
lit by sun,
fringed by frost,
milky skin
bleaching to pearl,
washed
and set free.