feathers littered the loam around,
iridescent shards catching the moonlight in shivers
it was a pelican— a vulture, no, some sort of seraphim
no it must've been a chimera, a swan
an icon's solemn face shown out from beneath billowing wings
it was Saint Mary— it was my mother, it was a rippling reflection of a stranger in a lake
it shuffled as I watched, passed between invisible hands. Overhand, cascade, faro
it was a memory of a memory of a memory,
replayed so often it has lost all recognizable features, smoothed out by fastidious fingers
marble statues anonymous save for the hint of a brow, a nose bridge, a socket
it was the great other— it was myself— it was the hoarse cry of a fox in the night
a ring of pain crested 'round my skull
I asked for its name and a hundred voices sang at once
it sounded like my father's first rage— my first cry, the diner waitress asking "and what can I get for you, sweetheart?"
iridescent shards catching the moonlight in shivers
it was a pelican— a vulture, no, some sort of seraphim
no it must've been a chimera, a swan
an icon's solemn face shown out from beneath billowing wings
it was Saint Mary— it was my mother, it was a rippling reflection of a stranger in a lake
it shuffled as I watched, passed between invisible hands. Overhand, cascade, faro
it was a memory of a memory of a memory,
replayed so often it has lost all recognizable features, smoothed out by fastidious fingers
marble statues anonymous save for the hint of a brow, a nose bridge, a socket
it was the great other— it was myself— it was the hoarse cry of a fox in the night
a ring of pain crested 'round my skull
I asked for its name and a hundred voices sang at once
it sounded like my father's first rage— my first cry, the diner waitress asking "and what can I get for you, sweetheart?"
it was up late at night finally noticing that no one calls me that anymore,
and what year did they stop?
It was faint, it was deafening, it was the Architect hissing in my mind as I laid on the ground convulsing.
Do not indulge in forces you do not understand.
It was the song the storm makes when it hits the shingles overhead
there is a rhythm to all things, even chance
it tilts its head, stone venetian masque
the hollows of its eyes belie a vastness
If it was a blessing why was I held down to receive it?
the hollows of its eyes belie a vastness
If it was a blessing why was I held down to receive it?
bewinged Angler, where is the rest of your formless body?
Where is your razor-filled mouth? How could I possibly satiate you?
It unfolds its wings with the sound of a hundred paper bags being crushed—
with the sound of a tumbleweed scuffing against barren earth— with the feeling of friction between skin and threadbare fabric, and pavement, and coal—
with your hands, too soft, too plush— an untuned piano being played by a cat
your fingers in my mouth, salt and sweat, a set of old stairs collapsing
the soul is long and sweet, it gets longer and sweeter by the hour, it is tended to by time and light
everything that lives must eat, and all things that grow must be devoured
