Monday, April 27, 2015
by the smartest of birds-- crows bully away with flapping
purple wings all the bright ones--- the blue, the red, all the winged who all ache
for seed-- a collective of need.
When a sparrow flew in through the window the promiscuous woman with crowblack hair said A sparrow is a bad omen...be careful, and cued, my life split into shards of obsidian. Even now, I remember, remember the echoe of her omen. Had I not palmed away the cold
feathers: body of sparrow and buried her in earth, would my life have been
different—path paved in feathers and blood-veined leaves fallen in their own due time. But now I spin
circles over stranger's graves with glitter in my hair sparkling
down to black grass I rip a patch clean, till my fingers bleed, I'm so hungry I pull from the earth
a rib-- lick dirt and gnaw.
Oh mirror, why have I not cracked and crunched you to silvery dust with my bare feet and buried all the obsidian reflectors-- for my outwards have come to mean
more than the black horse drinking the stream, more than the willow-swept night, more than shadows on the moon, more than the ash of my beloved.