Banshees do whisper love poems

in the middle of the night

when wolves howl to the moon.

They let their wailing lips

rest upon the shooting stars.

We all are broken women, she says.

Maidens before love’s grip

sharp tooth snarl as it shakes affection

and we learn the word love

between broken heart strings

that lovers pluck until they hear

our spines and hearts snap.

They pocket our love

as gold coins to pay off debt

of silver tongues and loose change fingers.

Banshees wait by phones

until the dial tone teaches them to wail.

They drag the phone lines

along the shadows

to highest of the mountain

and let their tongues cleave against winds,

and leave tear streak welts upon the night sky.

Our names become warnings, and our suitors

become dating profile ghosts.

The tales never lose their terror

but evolve into digital jargon.

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