watches people stumble down the street talking
loudly to people who aren’t there.
Cassandra knows she’s
or they’re under an enchantment.
Hard to see its exact shape. The hot parts
hotter, vineyards aflame.
Archipelagos of plastic trash.
Flotillas of fire ants.
Cassandra pulls at her eyelashes.
Fish forget to eat, mate, flee.
Even the flowers
hang dead in their caves.
Cassandra plucks out her eyebrows
waiting for Clytemnestra to call.
She could light herself on fire.
So many lotus eaters.
What would it take
to wake them up?
Image By: https://maggiemcneill.files.wordpress.com/2016/01/cassandra-by-evelyn-de-morgan-1898.jpeg