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.
_______
not a word out of place, honed razor sharp. gorgeous.
ReplyDeleteYou soar at the pinnacle of Poem
ReplyDeleteAloha
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.
ReplyDeleteThe "sheathed" line was one of my favorites as well.
ReplyDeleteEFD. You do it every day. I'm pissed. ;)
Laser-sharp. Love the flight feathers and talons.
ReplyDeleteI 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.
ReplyDeletecutting, precise language. And the tone, real. One of the things I love most about your work.
ReplyDeletethis poem is an extraordinary. thanks
ReplyDeleteyou paint quite the picture with those words
ReplyDeleteThat last stanza is so perfect I can't stand it!
ReplyDelete