This path has found us prisoners.
Dark with patches of sun.
Scissors and gourds hollow metal.
Strings in our lips shrunken down.
See how you are controlling the seas
And upsetting the weather?
Breaking chairs and conflicting our mothers?
Opened mouths
Opened eyes.
Bent and broken your breath feeds the flame.
You are playing horse shoe
Ready like a ringer.
Harpsichord child in a sleepless night.
A shrunken head in my hand and a
Documenting traces of a hungry hunter.
Running and returning
With gourds and scissors
in my hand.
© -Sonja J. Johnston 24-Aug-2013
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