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. _______
I will keep my wicked thoughts tucked into the roots of my hair, and my hair will spread and rise and wave in the wind like a black prairie.
Crows will come out of my cogitations. How long will those window panes of yours keep them out? My Goddess, but they're noisy. They are made of bibles and molasses, and they want to sink their sharp parts into your lazy dreams.
Don't think you did anything wrong-- I would never say so.
Still, if I were a scarecrow such as you, I would soak myself in gasoline and lean into the sun just as it goes down. That will be your only chance to shine, so you really should grab at it, like someone falling. My hair can be your landing place, full with baby crows just itching for their first disturbing instinct.
They will love your eyes, just as I did when I walked the earth, up and down, a baby devil so pretty it made you look. ________
in a cup of ceramic moon bone, i nest my ignited constellations. i keep two eyes-- one for hot, one for cool-- kiss me and taste the entire sky. ______
this is my attempt at a tanka, for Real Toads. my dislike for oriental forms is widely known, so if this doesn't fit the bill, please choke on a cherry blossom!
When I visited Northampton in 2007, I had never heard of you.
Imagine a covering of leaves, an inch off the ground, that seems to be a complete and complicated world to the crow searching for her supper. Imagine the unobserved moon overhead, and all the stars.
In Northampton, I got a lesbian discount at the little bookstore. There were two moms pushing a stroller down the street together outside, and even the mayor was one of us. My companion, a poet friend, was high on new love with her rock singer girlfriend. In a week, they would be at the Red Sox playoff game, and I would be back home, flying solo in Motown.
In 2007, I had never heard of you, but, observed or not, the Moon keeps searching for the perfect face to show, and the stars still cross beside her as they love to do. What made you look up, sweetheart, at the same second I did? Is it possible to measure the moment when crows remember that the sky belongs to them, too? _______
for Marian's "Harvest Moon" challenge at Real Toads.
Don't feel like writing real poetry? Try non-prescription haiku. Haiku users have, however, reported the following: nausea, confusion, lethargy, skin rashes, radical changes in personality, strange or upsetting dreams, incontinence, and the urge to bomb Pearl Harbor. Ask your doctor about haiku. He'll say, "You batshit crazy asshole! Stay off that shit!"
Presented as a public service in conjunction with G Man's friday 55!
