Photo Challenge #65 and Wordle #167 “Runaway”

Zwobel Sad Girl


Her unseamed flesh suggests neither

Fall nor insurgence but a sorrow

More prolific and pandemic than grain.

The dirty halo of her ancestors afflicts

Not through acquisition but through attachment.

A slavering of words unfit for a child’s ear,

A slavering of fists unfit for a child’s possession.

They’ve pierced her heart, worms

In the apple of eyes too blind to glint.

A key scratching door after door

In hopes of reconciling the fit.

There are no players in this game

No levels and no present moments

Worth the labor of acquisition.

Her mind approaches the air

Drinking in each passage, each tornado

As if it were a fever, a phase

In the consistency of consciousness.

Her red shoes splinter the ground

On which they rest, the unseen dervish

The mangled bike in search of vagrancy.

Her dress woven of snow-white cotton

Does not chance upon the sun

But on the slow and singular articulations

Of a moon half-risen and slightly strained.