Cielo N. Howell

The Pagan

Into the hands of God

She clings to her father’s robes

her with her red clippings—

wings once sewn to shoulder bones.

Made for begging

daughter’s love—bent like Spring,

she sings like a rabbit howling

I want it all, for the moon

cradles me.

The idea of a mother

to a girl so broken—

Take me. I am still

waiting for summer. Mother

I want to go home.

She spoons herself

asking forgiveness of Winter

He pities her

Autumn was not so kind,

She wears her beaded belt

The Pagan curses

I am different from you,

for the love you give

starves me,

She dances to

singing woodland winds

I am free, I am free,

Your little girl

is dead.

Ah, my other self—

Forgive me. I did not mean

to become such a weight.

My season has come to

break me further, so sister,

Let us sink.

Cielo N. Howell is a Purchase College creative writing major from Westchester County, New York. She has an intrigue for the unanswered, the chaotic, and the natural world. She is the managing editor of Italics Mine. When not writing she can be found in trees, antique shops, and feasting on seasonal goodies.