Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun rides again.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Harpies

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.
_______

10 comments:

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

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  2. You soar at the pinnacle of Poem




    Aloha

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  3. 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.

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

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

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  5. Laser-sharp. Love the flight feathers and talons.

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  6. 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.

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

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  8. this poem is an extraordinary. thanks

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  9. you paint quite the picture with those words

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

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Spirit, what do you wish to tell us?