Silver Springs

The prophet comes —
she is young,
maybe seventeen.
She wears dark green
and silver bracelets.
She likes to think her
hands are singing
bird songs when
she moves.
She holds together.
Listens to the rain
her mother heard
when she was
a girl.
Her lips are cracked —
blood laces the teeth.
She says very little.
The words are heavy
in her mouth, taste
like pennies.
When the boys
try to love her,
she tells them all
it will end in fire.
They laugh
uncomfortably.
Grab at her hands.
For the first time
in her life
the bracelets begin
to sound like
chains.

Advertisements
2 comments

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: