The muscle and fat of her songs

Once a lass craved by a lad.
 He lusted after her.

 She is cold,
 as he forces himself on her,

 He cuts out tongue,
 to stop her gab.
 Sliced by his blade, he holds it with pincers.
 Her tongue’s root quivers
 the rest lies on dark soil, writhes
 and trembles, searches
 for some sign of her.

 She weaves the fact in purple design
 on a white background, so her boss
 sees what her mutilater has done
 and moved by her rape

 molds her into a feathered thing, warm brown back, pale front, speckled with lines of dark arrows that point to her head, a tinge of golden brown on her breast, belly almost white with a few small dark spots,

 a bird who embroiders the fact of her pain in the cup of her nest,
 twigs, grass and moss, cemented
 thickly lined with mud, dung, rotten wood, mixed with leaves.

 At the start she could only
 call his name, nothing else
 in short bursts twice,
 clear and flute-like.

 She is a dirsh, thrusher,
 thirstle, throggle.

 Come icy ground she smashes
 the shells of snails
 against a favourite stone,
 picks at the foot,
 as at a swollen tongue,
 swallows the meat.

 The muscle and fat of her songs
 cure sickness and convulsions.

via WordPress for Phone app.

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