If you haven’t heard from me by now
I’ve been pinned to a clothesline in a field
where swollen-bellied children hunt acridians
the size of barn swallows. I’ve been wrung out
by obedient hands, my symbols beaten
onto rocks of rivers thick with age.
Where two uncles will hold down a pig
as an aunt cuts, I’ve been put to better use
the ends of me – my quietest corners –
fluttering at the bloodied wrists of one
who hasn’t touched a pen in years.
As seen in Prism International.