I see the moon – flickering, broken
leaning against
the sky – and am afraid.
I am a girl among men and women
robed in beauty but
without faces. Their tongues
cut; I am derided. Is there an end
to these knives? I lie
I stammer, I am on the verge
of twitching.
I am composed of scorched sea
foam and fire.
I am like a ribbon of weed.
When will I be
flung to the uttermost
edge of the world?
