Christina clenches the crisp brown grass in bone-white fingers,

it pricks at her legs and clings to her dress.

Her world comprised of unending swaths of that grass,

bruised skies,

where she alone

possesses a spark of life.

A young Christina 

danced around weathered shacks.

“When I’m older, I’m going to see the world, Mama.”

She dreamed of gleaming buildings

that cleaved the clouds.

Trees that outlived civilization.

Jagged mountains on the horizon.

Beaches with roaring cerulean waves.

A young woman now,

Christina knows of hungry winters,

the power of money, 

and the powerlessness of the poor.

Small harvests barely 

last winter.

“I’ll never leave now.”

Humid wind whips at her hair

and Christina begs it, “Take me with you.”

Lonesome howling its only response.

The first rain kisses her face

as Christina welcomes the storm.

From her home and prison,

“You understand me, Sister,” she whispers.

Booming thunder echoes 

the sound of her dying dreams.