She turned an ear
for words to flood in sharply
and when they filled her,
consolidated into a sword of whispers.
A phantom hand took the hilt and twisted
Her ear became the basin for blood to sit quietly
Until a tilt of the head,
it came pouring out.
Fresh. New again.
But still she listened
as long as one ear was free
the words could be absorbed into her veins
And the blood she so gracefully handed away
with a smile reaching cheek to cheek.
For she could not respond in kind
words,
self-fulfilling prophecies that threatened to drill
the sword further in,
and lest she open her mouth,
an unattractive pool of blood might spill out as well.
More than anything
she wished to pull the sword out
and drive it through someone else’s ear
watch them take on the relentless words
drowning them in a polluted red
demanding a price for the wholly unwanted.
She did not want to listen, she wanted to roar.
Lucy Zhang 