a wrinkled, sagging
bag of bones.
She’s wise
in the darks ways
of witches, they say.
A dragon
roaming at night
she sucks the blood of babes.
She came
from the village
when young,
danced with the devil at midnight
disavowed ancestors,
sold her soul.
A withering twig
without sustenance
she squats in dirt in sun, in rain.
We are blind, hearts are stone,
lips spit contemptuous words
when passing by.
Nobody claims
this root-eating being
implanted on the roadside.
No son
no daughter
no sister.
Althea Romeo-Mark
© 1999
World Wide Writers,
Writers’International England
No comments:
Post a Comment