Poetry:Poverty



She tears

the words

apart


into bite-

sized

chunks,


strangles

beats

desecrates


them into

soup

to feed


her children

of dreams

through cold


cold winters,

lost souls in

too silent


woods,

ax-wielders

with survival


on the mind.

She is

afraid


of the

repercussions.

The mind


is a concussed thing

and words

frost the windows,


kill the rabbits,

hang in the

branches,


reaching

down like

hands


for the

grabbing,


for the

praying,


for the

shaking,


constant

worrying

deafening.


She cuts


and cuts


and cuts


and still


the scraps

are barely

enough.


-JC