Locust girl won’t talk.

She creeps beneath grass and damp

soil to parallel play with worms.

She is of no consequence.

Here, she is only mineral to dirt.

 

Locust girl can almost feel the sun.

Deeper she burrows into her earthen den.

If sun can find her so can he,

smiling sickly as he pries away her sweet pulp.

 

He will rip off her wings, fry them

up with a sprinkle of salt.

He will dine on a salad of her legs,

procure a pudding of her soft belly.

 

Finished, he curses her with sour breath,

tosses her masticated body back

into the muddied tomb.

She, the loveless leper.

Slut of the grave.

 

Locust girl acquaints herself with worms.

Turns stiffened legs up to a liberated sun.

On her back, belly exposed, wings

folded beneath her.

 

She waits in silence for

the strength to fly and

abandon her defiled shell

in the grave.