by YVETTE R. MURRAY

don’t deserve this. 
They have been around a long time; served us well.
Why then do we use them like poisoned blue darts?
Words have been so kind as to adapt.  
They want to stay relevant too.
But we spit them into red plastic cups like
‘bacca juice and leave them on the side of the road.
They never harmed us, 

But we turn them ugly side out, 
Pit them against each other,
Use our fangs to inject venom.

The poor words can’t be unheard,
the ring after of their scent,
makes folk mad.

I hope they don’t cry, 
I hope they don’t die by suicide,
I hope they don’t vanish within.

Then we will never again find the words.
They might like that though. 
Scrubbed clean with different color hair
They can hold hands,
stroll the streets,
carry their shopping bags,
or look for a bistro
in peace. 

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Yvette R. Murray received her B.A. in English from Duquesne University in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  She has been published in Fall Lines, The Petigru Review,Catfish Stew, Barzakh,GenesisScience Fiction magazine, forthcoming in Emrys Journal and Call and Response Journal. She is a 2020 Watering Hole Fellow and a 2019 Pushcart Prize nominee.  Presently, she is working on her first poetry collection and a children’s book series.