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I am becoming a thing of feathers beginning with the voice now just a harsh croak, inviting a farmer's shotgun Silver black feathers that shine in the midwestern sun begin to speckle my flesh and teach me the power of flight. My bones begin to hollow the marrow dripping out in glistening pools lifting me and allowing corn colored claws that were once hands bound in rings to show in slight toed glory and lift me from the tired tracks in the field plowed a thousand times by mothers and grandmothers with small brown children tied against the trees for their safety. Children that smile and never never move told always that I will come but told always that it will be at night when no one can look and no one can know not even they know as I rise in the wind of the day not what they think, blind yet still powerful the smell of carrion I eat strong about me the odor of cleanliness and waste not quite wasted. I move in a way that touches them chilly in their bones as they lay down the hoes and rakes and look up for slow years watching as shadows fall across them |
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Poetry Contents Page |
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About Standards |
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