Some men go down to the river.
I went down, instead, to the lake: the air
silent and stretched tightly over it,
the water unmoved and dangerously still.
Some men move past such a scene
without even the slightest notice of it.
There were woods behind my house
scattered with berries I couldn’t digest. I’d curl on top of the dirt
hugging the knot inside my belly and now
I’m in bed kissing a pale green vein
as I listen to his voice like a knife with its scar—
six birds stretched
across a fret board.
Of an animal, especially a bird. A wandering species
whom no seas nor places limit. A seed who survives despite
the depths of hard winter. The ripple of a herring
steering her band from icy seas to warmer strands.
as every thing begins with the heart beat of horses
a tribe the thudded color of all creation
my people gather brindle as if the night
were drizzled long across their backs she
of sickle sword of tendon & tusk
fat girl nicks herself shaving in the shower,
resents the water that will carry her
blood to sea. Blood, worthless currency,
cannot buy a country but becomes it,
platelets stitching into streets. fat girl weeps
for the blood that won't return—
April 14, 2021
POETRY DAILY MS 3E4 4400 University Drive Fairfax, VA 22030