Blindly asking the stars to name a destiny for her,
she holds their orphaned secrets
in a little tin box at the back of her tongue.
In the land of absent prophets,
there are red-stung poppies
counting on no one –
ferrying the living back to the dead.
Given the swords, given the perpetual counting
of bone-hard souvenirs that line this throat,
all she really wants is one whisper
back from amnesia
and a country called indifference,
that, yes, yes, he did.