Friday's Child
We always called Cassandras
immature the way she ran
through town with her electric hair
and torn clothes, telling us
that we already know:
that regiment of clouds
that cloud bombard us soon
with snow, cloud burry us;
that art in an equivocal gift,
that every flower awaited
it's proper place
on out funeral wreaths.
We knew all of that
she waas our own child.
But once betrothed to grief.
What could we do but morn?
we let her speak and speak,
all words so angry
are metephors.
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