To Lose A Feather: May 2012

Looting The Tomb

Was it instinct or addiction

that led me back to this creekbed

to walk upon it’s mossy rocks?

What is this compulsion

to feel winter’s frigid whip

of wind crack against my cheek,

to camouflage my hands

with fragrant mud?

The blackthorn cane I bought in Dublin

dug up bones of an animal

that had forgotten it’s name and structure,

this Humpty Dumpty’s time-stained shellbits

laid there deconstructed and jumbled

among the acorns, twigs, and deadsoggy leaves.

I collected the remains

of the body’s collapsed frame

and put them in my jacket --

there was a feeling of weird power

when I stuck those fleshless bits

of death into my nervous pocket --

a scalpel blade of clarity sliced through

mind’s skin and I split-second glimpsed

into the open wound:

I learned that I’ve lived through each forever

and will never cease to be;

that nothing has ever died;

that death cannot destroy,

only rearrange the shapes --

it’s unbending metal hangers

to unlock the bedroom door.

To Lose A Feather