The Pagan
Into the hands of God
She clings to her father’s robes
her with her red clippings—
wings once sewn to shoulder bones.
Made for begging
daughter’s love—bent like Spring,
she sings like a rabbit howling
I want it all, for the moon
cradles me.
The idea of a mother
to a girl so broken—
Take me. I am still
waiting for summer. Mother
I want to go home.
She spoons herself
asking forgiveness of Winter
He pities her
Autumn was not so kind,
She wears her beaded belt
The Pagan curses
I am different from you,
for the love you give
starves me,
She dances to
singing woodland winds
I am free, I am free,
Your little girl
is dead.
Ah, my other self—
Forgive me. I did not mean
to become such a weight.
My season has come to
break me further, so sister,
Let us sink.
Cielo N. Howell is a Purchase College creative writing major from Westchester County, New York. She has an intrigue for the unanswered, the chaotic, and the natural world. She is the managing editor of Italics Mine. When not writing she can be found in trees, antique shops, and feasting on seasonal goodies.