A poem by Evie Greville

Blood trickles from my knee,

Lilac blossoming across my skin.

The stream trickles over my bare toes.

My skirt blows gently in the wind.

The bookstore on Elm Street burnt down last week,

I mourned at home with my father.

Theres a sick solitude in waiting.

The pews at Church offer nothing but a curious longing for

passion.

Who will I pray to if I feel I can only depend on these stones

beneath my feet?

I am a mirror of your delicate faults.

I pray for your bitterness.

Knowing looks won’t protect me from becoming foolish.

I reach down into the water

And dig my fingertips into the mud.

I try to believe I am free.

I smear my arms with it.