Huddled in stinking rags,
alone in a dank cave, surrounded
by a sky-less emptiness.
My eyes play tricks on me in the dark.
Nymphs scurry past my feet,
bats cower in corners. Wings beat,
match the rhythm
of the broken pumping
in my chest, faltered flutters.
By now you know them well, daughter,
they are the butterflies of the underworld,
sensitive to the smell of your blood.
They hide their eyes from me.
“Have you seen her?”
I ask indifferent flutters.
Silence in this cave is my reprieve, my punishment.
I am not interested in the sunlight.
It has nothing to offer me.