By Erica Manolith.

I don’t understand,

your life.

The sick look by the back door,

porch screen, flapping in the wind.

You don’t seem to notice the human,

of the humans around you.

Perhaps this makes you vomit?

Where are your skills?

Where is your voice?

It’s a vapor,

it’s a screen in the wind,

it fades,

it aches,

it has nothing to say,

and from nothing,

there is born,

nothing.

Erica Manolith is a writer living in Northwestern Pennsylvania. She is currently finishing her degree in France, and is home for the summer writing poetry for sport.