Mar 132014

by Karol Wasylyshyn


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.