it is her heart we hear when we're hushed in the halls
hush
for today
it is silent
it is tiny, failing
and she's tiny, flailing
as she starts to scream on the sonogram screen
she is dying in green
she is born.
white
silent
still
so we whisper ariastillwe're singing ariastillwe're screaming arias in her ears
until
she hears
us
minds
poured in pens over the bends of the blue
lines
of her paper skin.
there is poetry in
her hands
and we ring our hands
painting drips in her eyes
till she cries
and the colors run brown
and the sounds
her eyes sing
strike her lung's strings
till they're burning
with the breath of violins
and the earth of creation

This nation
doesn't hear her
silent
anymore.

she isn't silent
anymore.
we hush
for
her heart has returned to this hall.
and.

We
call
her

"Art".

Labels: By Ana