“Thou hast no hands, to wipe away thy tears
Nor tongue, to tell me who hath martyr’d thee — William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus”
Once lissome, the girl with arms like branches.
Limbs have been severed
— replaced with the purest form
of wood.
Lend me a hand,
a fig off your tree!
Gnaw at the vine with your capable teeth.
Speak!
Speak a word or two.
And leave the old mimes to mime.
Twig by twig
he snaps each tiny lifeline
ridding her of nimble choice.
Olive branches tinted red,
bleeding deeper through the grain–
lending lively veins to this incapable hand.
leaving the girl
without a voice.
No tongue to call her own,
no tongue with to merely call.
A parody,
a silent show.
The mimes mimic her moans
as they watch
her branches grow.
–
Amanda Carl is a writer and musician from New York City. Her poetry has appeared in Halcyon Magazine and The Normal Review.
–
hyacinth noir 