Angry Feminist | Claire Trochu

THE QUESTION

Hailey Sipes

The seed is planted with a lack of professionalism, A theatrical narrative of a growing passion Between two inebriates, Drunk on the slightest bud of a rose. A string of lyrical nothings whispered into the ear, Summer lovers race to the beach, The pebbles crunching against the soles of their shoes. It was an intimate dance of vulnerable, Pounding, swelling hearts Against their cages. A small, gallant knight weaved through painted fingers, Its red paint chipped at the snout and along the mane, The soft green felt of the underside caving in. She released him and he plummeted into the sand. A centuries-year-old soothsayer with a taste for cigarettes waits Beneath the shadow casted from a tall oak, His spells dying before they can croak past his cracked lips, Watching as the flowers begin to bloom. A murder of crows circles around the shore, And one plucks the knight from the grains, Carrying it in his long, black beak to the soothsayer. He drops it in the old man’s paper palm. Seasoned, naïve eyes locked on the object, Twisting it in his hand. And when the lovers fluttered back to the road, He returned it safe into the painted fingers. The rose withers.