My Mother found a pair of teeth in
our backyard today. Our once pristine
green grass is now speckled with blood,
human blood. Small bones snap in the
wind, hanging from the pine trees near the field.

The trees normally whisper to each other,
but since the bones were hung they've
been silent. Their silence is gruesome,
disgusting, similar to the hair strung
across the clothing line.

Clumps of curls float in the wind,
sneaking up on the bones that dance
in the trees, fear runs through the marrow.
The curls float, leaving the scene,
flying blissfully to the next house,
awaiting the screams of loved ones.

Silent

Red