Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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The picture of her half-moon face

and horsetail hair hangs in my mind.

She has the hands of someone

used to pretending about straight lines and

answers : the fingers crossed at all angles.

From her shoulder three shafts of lupine urge out—

the yellow flowers aching for a home.

And the black birds.

Don’t they always come uninvited—

don’t they always                   crowd in?

They ask where the boy has gone to.

He is with the weather and another [mother].

Peek in over a shoulder : the angry blades.

See the sleek neck of a crow race through—

                         there and gone—

there and gone.    

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