Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2019  Vol. 18 No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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Elijah Fed by Ravens

it began in
loose grip, hands, their
shaking, eyes un-
focused, a blur &
sun-spots at the
center, its black
tint, core, if you
can call it that
vision of old
black feathers
vision of dark
nest, denouement, a

merciful conclusion, release &
thirsty for re-
lease, more mercy
burned black feathers to start a fire
black smoke from the
black fire, it proves
provision isn’t
all tasty,

Listen, you caught the
raven’s beak, couldn’t
stand the wait. You took
the meat before you
were ready. Brook dried,
& the dried-up brook
had rocks, the bottom
unfit for baking
bread. A story comes
later. You couldn’t
wait & meat was there.
But you still didn’t
believe, you saw the
sun-through-leaves, the air
was dry, & a sun
shone. You cannot be
happy. You ask your
self why at least once
a day. At least you
are outside, at least
you have someone who
rubs oil on your neck.
The dried-up brook is
a word saying go,
go, you can’t stay here.
Listen, you catch the
raven by the stem
& force him to tell
you the truth; his laugh
sounds like dried leaves or
what we call the fall,
pack under piles the
names of trees escape
you. You call yourself
ungrateful as you
swallow down the bread
before you get up,
before you can leave.  

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