PHILOMELA

KATIE BYFORD

 

 

 

Quills pushed through each pore

that had been touched

a beak snapped round her face

where his fingers had pushed

and with the other hand

cut out her speech, the stub

of tongue still wilted.

            The female nightingale

has no song.           —but see her claws

wound round with thread like shuttles

weaving agony into the sky.