The stream of her words had a strange beat,
starting slowly…halting then steady, steady
first as a starling’s wings…quiet whispering
incoherent, lost but seeking absolution…or,
at least a linen envelope to hold her obsession.
Then as the flapping of a gull, loud nude flapping
words whipping sand in the face of reason…open
screeching, reaping a samba shock and swiftness
her torments tumbling out uncensored—and proud;
she cannot cease the telling of her lurid injuries.
And finally as the full spreading of a raptor’s wings
raptor diving and spewing words, words on fire
howling beat from the jungle of her soul pounding
from the temple where she strides up to Mother and
taunts with a kiss, Now it is my turn to burn you down.