Narrative

On that blue sky day, 
if Cassandra still had a voice, 
she would have believed. 
If Moses had laid his staff 
before her path, 
her heart would not harden. 
But no prophet wailed warning 
shattered her joy 
that late May day 
when she meandered 
through MacArthur Park. 
pushing her twenty-three day old infant. 
No more blue sky days, 
her life forever altered. 
A statistic to some, 
but an empty room to her. 
Now she is the broken voice 
in the wilderness that we ignore.

In Her Own Land