PURE
Ice breaks the Northern winds,
here, the chest of knives make
the wind whistle a thin scream
of daughters frightened out of flow
with memory of slaughter,
until they chose to know
that silence is survival’s game
when each sound lifts
the executioner’s blame.
Shame. She is a poet-whore
whispering in rivers of pain
where no loss nor gain
could dub the disposal game
with any special, sacred name.
And the ice burns like lava
in sheaths of snow, purest flame
through words, thoughts
and every sad pretense to know,
where the forsaken go
when sleep drops the human floor.
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