A Cargo of Green Hearts
~POEMS~
I.
it’s fair, said the crow, these black feathers and voice like gargling on nails what they call us when we gather: murder—as if we contrived to peck out hearts. the earth has clothed us in ashes and death and there is endless need for those things, I know—but sometimes in the night when wind gives up whistling and the owl's electric eye stalks us to shivering onto the plank of a branch I am no longer of death am indistinguishable from dark alone and freed to sing a high blue note or burst into flame, not able to hold onto whatever you make of me. II. it is said, before my time before naming, we were white birds born of snow who dipped ourselves down from the poles to quench a fire that would eat the entire planet. once you take on suffering there is no going back you are the cloth of the ghats thence forward. III. sometimes I compose a hoarse poem or laugh madly or fall into a kiss as if to break my bones on it. always, I am wearing these same feathers but not getting any younger. but the flying, the way earth looks small and gifted as a seed I might peck up and plant in some faraway, sane dirt--well, tell me what you would not trade for that. Comments are closed.
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Poetry LogPoems are posted here when I'm ready to share them. I often don't title my poems. The date you see above the poem may be the date it was posted here and not necessarily the date it was created. To see more, click on the Archives below. Archives
January 2020
CategoriesUnless otherwise noted, all content ©Paul-William Gagnon, Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-NoDerivs license.
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