The soft-haired youth

Makes a sound between

The shrill scream of a siren

And the soft Aaah of a sigh.

No one can hear it

As she stands still

The pounding press

Of water at her back,

Her hands tangled

In the silken seaweed

Of her ginger locks.

The swell of sound

Does so little

To relieve the tears

Trapped in her throat.

The whoosh of water

Makes it hard to hear

Her quiet, whispered

Noises of pain.

No hands will reach for hers;

No soft hushing of the wails

Will ever grace her ears;

None will stop her heart

From its reeling dance

Beneath her rib cage.

The swell of sound

Does so little

To relieve the tears

Trapped in her throat.

No tears will grace this face,

The fists will not unclench

To let the cuts from her nails

Begin to make the water

A tepid pink.

Swirling a shock of light hair

Around a trembling finger

She bites her lip, and brushes

At her dull, dry eyes

With her other tremulous claw.

The swell of sound

Does so little

To relieve the tears

Trapped in her throat.

Tomorrow she will try

To stand from a crouch,

To coax a cry from her eyes,

And to smile mockingly

At what she's been so long

In becoming.

Mama, forgive me.