She Grew Up to Be a Poet
More angel than Medusa,
no temple serpents lick
clean her ears of dark words'
fates. No ill- or forked-tongued
Cassandra she, the child hears
her future sure: swirls of letters
stuttered and unstrung,
her own sweet-voiced Calliope
cajoling the spells of imagination's
epic rides through landscapes hued
in green, metered in dotted staccato riffs.
On horse half-harnessed,
she plucks her language branch
till bare, verses stacked on backs
of butterflies, their wings ink-dipped,
Greek and Latin meanings clear.
2015 © Maureen E. Doallas