For Cassandra
       

Not having been heard
as if a waterfall, invisible, yet ever roaring
had fallen between her and the world;
and having been seen only in her coat of motley,
she moved as a crooked thing moves
scrabbling, scuttling, the whole of her day
spent tripping over the knottiest roots;
and when she died, when the waterfall ceased—
they heard her silence. This they filled
with their own voice—the common
tongue that licks the salt from prophets
until nothing is left but a stain.
She lived as one you might think harmlessly insane.
Catastrophe, she cried, Catastrophe—
while the sea kept up its lifting and falling mood.
Catastrophe—cries the soul—in solitude.

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Copyright © 2016 Joe Weil All rights reserved
from A Night in Duluth
NYQ Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission