From the branches I catch the flicking
of an eastern kingbird, it’s raspy call
like lost memory on the damp wind.
In this moment all is only the bird and I,
my hand and it’s wing, it’s song
and the salty taste of my own words
held ablaze in my mouth. It is a mystery,
the bird and it’s sharp wing that opens,
like a knife might, a yielding to your
presence in me.
Such darkness in sworn secrecy, the hidden
you give me hope to open.
Latest posts by Karla Van Vliet (see all)
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