The Scream
It must feel good
deep in her throat
and all through her belly and leg bones,
so she just won’t stop
in the back alley
below the staircase
where, minutes ago,
she started, with her
elbows bent, palms jammed
on blonde-grey brick,
the red cotton skirt
mashed with one knee
into mortar and brick wall,
the sneaker sole scrunched
in the door frame corner
where the cement is cracking
and the long crevice leads
down, down in the heavy air
to the lowermost subway tunnels.
And from that warm source
stream ants all in a panic
across the bridge of her shoe.
She stares at the black trail.
She screams at their shining bodies.
No one will remove her,
no one will stop her voice,
not ants,
not her brothers
in a gang on their flashing bikes,
not her father
shoving aside the screen door,
and surely not the neighbors
with strollers and cell phones
and broad frowning faces
lowering car windows,
hoping someone else will save her.
