Lips barely parting,
she sews her words as though crocheting a brittle carpet.
Made from the wombs of sullied women
that lay bloated. Choked with an eerie silence-
the prophets of tombs-
and the flustering sound of fading footsteps on wet soil.
Treating these letters with the fragility
of grandmother’s crystal wine glasses.
Fearful of scarring these woven sentiments
with the woes of her hurt-
mistaken for wrath.
her teeth, once mistaken for pearls, now barely visible:
“it remains stuck
on the surface of my soul
now scurrying away with the clouds
whilst the evening sky plays to the soundtrack of thievery
eclipsing this essence, and
what was once mine—”
Laying the flowers,
she parts the square concrete singing the chorus
to an ancient hymn.
Crumbling behind her;
the name erodes into the disobedient letters
she labored to command.
“is now for the pillaging of the gods.”