The forcing wind stills your cry.
It doves through your brain,
comes out a vulture,
the taste of knowing on its tongue.
Mute lips mime a girl-grief,
but will not widen enough
for it to be born.
It swells in your stomach
kicking for life.
Too young to mother such pain,
over your taut tummy you wear
bright colours to hold the eye.
Boys who hiss like the wind
hold back when you pass.
They will not follow.
They see the silence in your eyes
like a sacred book
that they will not read.