Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsFall 2020  Vol. 19 No. 2
an online journal of literature and the arts
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The scales pattern like rose petals—bladed.
I’ve never seen a wild one, a pink one.
What is pink? What is wild? The instant

oatmeal and flax box this morning
quoted Euripides—something about a tree.
Leaves versus fruit. Like an unexploded bomb,

rain lifted the loop from its hole in the dirt.
So much of what I mean moves away
from language—the mind an edge

of a mountain backlit at dusk. My child.
For now, my arms cradle you on the path,
your vertebrae curving like a shepherd’s crook.

Snailed, feet frogged. From the earth, I think.
The grass stirs as though with a wooden spoon.
I am an I that wraps around itself

like a ring around the sun. Shed skin.
Apples and plums. Season of knowledge.
Fly home to your loft, little bird, I think, and the blued

clouds shift like consumer preferences above us.
Venom there, on the ground, in a mouth.
What I carry is like remembrance, but before memory.  

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