All Dead Things Shall Come To Me
Eleanna Castroianni
They wash out on my shore each night
Trinkets and glass, ivory masks
Heart-shaped lockets, diaries, maps
Smashed toys and silver, shiny stones
Beads, bottles, buttons, buttercups, bones
Of whales, sometimes, and water dragons’ spines
Sometimes it’s the placenta of a new-born star
Sometimes I trip on angel wings at dawn
Almost brand new, waiting for someone to
Adjust the straps and put them on
Talent, I have, that’s what they said
To find the life in what is dead
People are begging at my door, you see
To craft them harps of former lovers’ hair
They hand me fragments of the air — soul pottery
To bandage hearts that I repair
I rummage among seashells, teacups, cutlery
Metallic parts and cogs. I am
An artisan of sorts, I guess
Bee-keeper, ferryman
A gardener of graveyard gods
I stitch together wood and foam
Porcelain dreams, cicada husks
Heart-shaped keys and bird-song dusks
All dead things shall come to me
To tinker them to life, to undo mistake
A broken clock, uprooted tree
I make, I make, I make
A golden ribcage, pewter bee
Still wishing what I cannot take — I break
And all dead things shall come to me
Still haven’t found what died in me
Still haven’t found what died in me
Eleanna Castroianni is a nomadic subject with roots extending from the depths of Anatolia all the way to its Mediterranean coasts and beyond. Her fiction and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in Clarkesworld, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Podcastle and Eye to the Telescope. She lives in Athens, Greece.