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.