Cassandra at the dinner table

Like grace we clasp hands and speak of land
space to grow between the cutlery and passed salt
Cassandra tired and still
has cried frenzied prophecies
cuts and swallows still unused
to being asked

Prickly hypercritical hyperlexic child
Vindication in the sacked temple
eases nothing
Optimisms spiteful repetition
bracketing "no-ones going to stop you from dying
young and miserable and right" ^[1]
stop asking

"Yet does it matter whether I'm believed?
What's coming, comes" ^[2]
So many questions this kid sitting
precocious precious pretty
jumbled gears mashed together awkwardly in order
Mantea Stephe digging in and itching
welted temples throbbing out the need
to go quietly if going is what's asked of it