Cassandra
By Lydia Clay-White
Her mind is like the city
Rarely dark, even at night
and never quiet. In some
corner there is always
something stirring (foxes
crying, babies howling)
shadows cast at 2, 3, 4 am
amidst a blue-tinged
orange glow.
Relentless fragments of
a not-so-golden tomorrow.
Disaster and
acceptance: mixed at equal
levels through the aux.
A concentrated chaos
racing to and from
her thoughts.
Behind eyes which
glare like headlights
(light from candles, lights
from phones) she minds as
blinds in empty windows
wait for someone not-
quite-home. She loops the
tape and plays it back over
(and over again), a quiet
keeping-track of all
beginning, middle, and
in years to come they’ll
call her mad. Their
‘takes on her’ disrupt
the only peace she
(almost) had.
Her mind is like the city
Full of rage, flecked with pity.
If the world would just
Shut up. long enough
that she could form the
sounds between her mind’s
eye and her tongue –
instead, they foam around
her mouth, choking her
before she manages to
spit them out. But if she
could, well –
who’d believe her anyway?
Just a thought.
Meanwhile, blue-gold on
concrete beckons in the
roaring of another day.