Poem/Story: The Venerable Elder

The Venerable Elder

A loveless night surrounded by gore
makes me like
an old forgotten Elder sitting on a porch
that isn't hers, but she doesn't know.
With her deeply wrinkled, yellow, greasy, parchment flesh
- old all over
And limbs so thin and feather frail
Eyes milky with Jaundice and cataracts
What small circus goes on in Her ancient head?
A mind made infinite by depth of time
But the world has forgotten her
She has no one to care
Does she even think about all the lives she had touched?
All the people she has known, men she has changed?
No, she barely knows.
Young children come up the street in stripped shirts,
on cherry red tricycles.
They pelt the woman with sharp rocks and thorned things
And laugh.
She looks straight ahead
at a markless horizon and
hums a little - under her breath
The boys stop as a particularly sharp rock
glances off her forehead
tilting her neck
as her ancient blood runs black down her forehead.
They tense their bodies - prepared to run.
But she keeps on humming to herself.
Blood on her face and dripping onto her dress.
One of the boys dismounts his cherry tryc and approaches the porch.
She's sitting in a rusted wheelchair
Iron so corrugated it probably doesn't move
thick black nylons with burrs, rips, and dust.
The left one rolled down to her ankle
showing scars and scabs on her pale legs.
He unzips his jeans and pees in her lap
with a child’s evil smirk.
She continues to hum as the other children laughed
and threw a few more rocks for good measure
As they rode away in glee.
The Ancient Venerable Elder sat where she was.
Still.
As the sun was setting, and the stars came out.