The burned girl tries to untangle her hair
Catching her comb in the ashes. The light
Still winks from her sockets, and from the bare
Bones of her fingers, sparks break into flight.
The poisoned girl's breath is stone in her throat.
Her voice is the drop of stone into sea.
She tries to form words. She knows antidotes
Are hybrids of prayer and chemistry.
The hanged girl swings faster, bending her knees
At the height of each arc. Her broken spine strains
Not against death, but at least gravity.
She can fight physics who cannot fight pain.
The girl with a bullet in one green eye
Squints with the other one. When she has read
Her suicide note, she will wonder why
The living language must do for the dead.
I'm still alive and I gather the stones
And poisons and bullets and fire and rope
And words in a language that breaks like bones
Of girls who don't hear the voices of hope.
(December 1997)
copyright Vicka Rael Corey
vicka's homepage