Why She Is Silent Except For When She Isn’t

Once, before the time she fell

she didn’t know there was a spell.

Then, upon the line she knelt

peering deep into the welt

she wished the grounds would melt

for what she felt would not stay sheltered.

Belts unbuckled, the pelt she’d been dealt shuddered.

It was there, on the very tip of her tongue

a piece of rung, sung from the lung.

Slime life.

Yes, there, it tiptoed toppled out – toad.

It hopped about whilst others shouted, clouted.

The second time, it tick tock tickled the same

yet stone cold dead it lay, drawing red lines of pain.

Shine knife.

This dime-and it cost her more than that- rock.

It clattered whilst others scrabbled, grappled.

Then she kept zipped, clipped.

Tried to smuggle ships.

So for round three, when teeth grit had been ground free, out seethed…

snakes and lakes, a bunch of grapes

holey holly wreathes, a shadow’s grief,

shrugs and flails and puppy dog nails,

sweet and sour and bits of flowers,

last of all, the hand holding – and here, she stuttered –  h-h-h-ours.

Things splattered, shattered, scattered

at her w-w-were they words.

So now she tries to slide the worst

out of sight where lives won’t burst

keep her mouth unburnt

but boundaries are made in dirt

and dust won’t settle till all her petals

go with her to the quaking earth.


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