Tuesday, December 31, 2013


I rage and rest.

I think of you
breaking the twigs of my nest.
The carpet threads, the new-
fallen hairs you tore
with clipped control, and flew.

 I famished more
than on the first fair crack
of crying dawn, when I was young and poor.
You whistled down the seaming on my back,

crackled my wet mouth with food
that overspilled like grain from a fat sack.
It was warm on that bough, and good.

Alone and still, I heard the tenderest sound.
I feathered in your moss, your splintered wood,
and grew. You ripped me out: 
 clawed, cast me down--
I feed on stones, flail heavy with the ground.

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