Nivia-Natalia Frias

Elspeth

Tiny, gold crucifixes dangle
from the earlobes of a child who recites faithless,
yet faintly fearful prayers -
Shell-shocked, white-haired child.

Just as sleep tugs at the heels of her feet,
she kicks it back and pulls her
never-dreaming soul away from its enticing elixir.
Palms clasped,
off-script,
she prays,

“Oh, Wailing woman, my patron saint,
bless me with your shrieking gift.
Grant me ability to break plates,
to burst eardrums.
My lungs aren’t big enough
and I long to scream.”