“Dear nightingale hiding in green thickets,
I don’t want to think of the girl
who couldn’t tell her story, how nothing she sang
said what happened to her, her voice smudged
like wet ink the left hand blurs as it writes.
Well, worse than that—the knife at her throat,
the whole dark alley of him, errant star
burning inside her, then burning her out,
the red of her, the words. Her tale
like no tapestry you’d hang on the wall…”
-Read the entire poem at Field.