Saturday, September 28, 2013


Night is a shell we were half out of--
its edge an obstacle at eye level.

We only saw each other's soft side
in those days when the jagged break seemed benign,
like a string of crescent moons made of party paper.

We didn't know we were already growing flight feathers
and talons as large as grizzly claws.

Honey, we were sheathed in the things that killers are made from,
seasoned with the urge to fly or fall,
and of course,
an instinct to claim and use them.


Anonymous said...

not a word out of place, honed razor sharp. gorgeous.

Cloudia said...

You soar at the pinnacle of Poem


hedgewitch said...

I will somehow restrain the urge to start quoting lines back to you--because you wrote them, and you know them for everything they are--but sheathed in the things that kill--yegods, woman. Also the strings of moons. The heart is, indeed, a wild thing from the moment it's born.

Sioux said...

The "sheathed" line was one of my favorites as well.

EFD. You do it every day. I'm pissed. ;)

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Laser-sharp. Love the flight feathers and talons.

Kerry O'Connor said...

I love where you started this narrative - with the harpies emerging from their shells and still all soft and fluffy - not really knowing what they will grow into in time. I wish I had your imagination, Shay.

LaTonya Baldwin said...

cutting, precise language. And the tone, real. One of the things I love most about your work.

Tolga said...

this poem is an extraordinary. thanks

Daryl said...

you paint quite the picture with those words

Mama Zen said...

That last stanza is so perfect I can't stand it!